Radio On. 828.

"Now listen up you sons of bitches born in ditches. And listen good:

Red is three.
Three is red.
Red is three.
Red is three.
Red is three.
As sure as the sun pulls knees to burn them hyp-o-critical seas
Red is three
Red is three
Red is three
You still listenin'? You got yer radio turned up and out and in?
Red is three
Burn yer hide and lick yer sides, lucky dog, ducky sod, 'cuz
Red is three
Red is three
Ya'll gettin this yet? You'd better bet it--a hundred men rolled their legs up and smoked 'em to the butts for this. Eighteen girls spat ribbons to the curb for this. And yesterday six grandfathers and two sons of bitches traded eyes and dug root for this that here come on now now git goin'
Red is three
Red is three
Three is red
Red is three
Take a bow, Violet TAKE A GODDAMN BOW These words are for you and yours not me and mine mutts grubby grit turned lips frothing red knuckled mitts
Red is three
Red is three
You know three? Yah well it's red 'cuz you see
Red is three
Red is three

Let the broadcasting begin Fin."