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Coyne |
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Yeah they call him the Karate King |
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Chopping children down like trees |
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Bringing cows to their knees |
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Making their udders bleed |
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Now they call him the Karate King |
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Top of the shop in his robe |
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Nothing there can grow when he's around |
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Going chop-chop (x3) down in the gymnasium |
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They call him the Karate King |
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Like a bird on a wing |
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Standing posing at the window, at the door in his vest |
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His white and muscled flexing at all the passing girls |
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Smashing his way through the window frames |
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Ripping apart his mother's pearls |
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They're dying on the dressing table |
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Chop-chop (x4) |
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So if you see the Karate King |
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Help him, help him |
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Maybe you'll tie, tie his shoe laces |
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Come on, come on, comment on his pomaded hair |
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Tell him he would have been an excelent kamikaze pilot in the Second World War |
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Cause that's what he wants to hear, that's what he wants to hear, in the gymnasium |
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Chop-chop (x3) |