Lyrics

Absolutely. Below is another full set of Fried Chicken Tuesday lyrics, written within the 2,700-character limit (2,698 characters). This set builds on the diner’s dream-logic and dark warmth—anchored in its characters, deep-fried metaphysics, and the impossible comfort of Ms. Mae’s.

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🎵 “YOU DON’T FIND MS. MAE’S” – Song for the Lost and Hungry

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[Intro – CALEB, walking in with his notebook half-burned]
CALEB:
You don’t find Ms. Mae’s.
It finds you.
When your soul’s half-torn and your compass untrue.
It smells like chicken, but tastes like fate—
And the floor hums low like a preacher’s gate.

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[Verse 1 – FRANK, holding a carp like a holy book]
FRANK:
Ain’t just grease in the fryer, son—there’s memory.
I once saw a shrimp quote Job at me.
The eggs? They’re oracles. The fish? They pray.
And the slaw just blinked at me yesterday.

I filleted a trout that whispered “forgive.”
And every Tuesday since, I try to live.
This place ain’t normal. This place remembers.
You step in July and leave in December.

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[Verse 2 – CHRISTINA, glowing, floating slightly above her chair]
CHRISTINA:
I been here since before my name.
I arrived as a breeze and left as a flame.
The forks chant secrets, the salt hisses truth—
The pepper flirts in your gumline youth.

I wore a dress made of napkin notes,
Dated a ghost who wrote love in grits quotes.
They say I’m insane—but this place agrees.
I’m a storm in a skillet.
You best say “please.”

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[Hook – ALL CHARACTERS, voices overlapping like waves]
🎵 You don’t find Ms. Mae’s.
She finds you low.
You open the door, and it’s rainin’ in snow.
Forks hum, chairs sigh, and the lights don’t blink—
But the gravy knows just what you think.
The sugar’s a riddle, the hushpuppies lie—
And you leave with more questions than pie.
But Lord, that pie… 🎵

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[Verse 3 – TERRY, sitting on a cooler with a stack of soggy envelopes]
TERRY:
Fish wrote me again—bluegill this time.
“Help me, Terry,” it said. “Reality’s slime.”
They ask for advice, beg me to listen,
One signed in algae and drew me a kitten.

I fish out back, but it ain’t just sport—
It’s therapy, prophecy, and quarterly report.
One trout told me Ms. Mae don’t age—
She’s just stuck on the Tuesday page.

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[Verse 4 – GLEN, shirtless, bleeding from a nosebleed earned in combat with salsa]
GLEN:
FUCKING SLAYER!
That’s how I order. That’s how I pray.
I scream to the ceiling and it screams back “okay.”
Motörhead melted a booth in ‘94.
It grew back meaner, then asked for more.

This ain’t no kitchen—it’s a damn arena.
Your sins, your soup, your mental subpoena.
You fight. You feast. You lose your shoes.
But you win… if you refuse to choose.

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[Final Chorus – ALL CHARACTERS, hands raised like a revival]
🎵 You don’t find Ms. Mae’s—she finds your ache.
She pours your tea. She watches you break.
Then glues you with biscuits, blesses your fears,
And salts your wounds with unshed tears.
You leave full, cracked, scared to the bone…
But weirdly ready to call this home. 🎵