When you came rolling round, loud and proud,
With your boys talking about all that city slang,
Act like we don’t know a thing,
Just like we’re some backwards rejects, barely write a bad check,
Bass fishing, cousin kissing, nothing but a bunch of rednecks.
I’m about to let you know, son, we was raised on them shotguns
And none of us ever gonna back down, we’re proud of being small town.
Better listen to me close before you keep running that lip,
‘cause there’s a fifty-fifty chance that you might get your ass whipped.
Let me tell you how it’s going down, all up in here,
Everybody know just who you is, momma, daddy and your kids,
Seen you at the Walmart, caught you over about the dairy queen,
Called your wife about an hour ago, said you was at the bar with Joeline.
Now you’re talking crazy, talk son, drunk as hell hardly walk, son.
Tell ‘em there’s you the big cheese, momma gonna knock you to your knees.
If you go home and tell that country girl that bullshit, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that you might get your ass whipped.