| That red Georgia clay when mixed with the rain
|
| Sure made for one nasty mess
|
| Ah, but we were ridin' high in the old truck of mine
|
| In deep as we could get
|
| Always lookin' for a rut, tryin' not to get stuck
|
| And swingin' that mud everywhere, growin' up down there
|
| Me and my friends where the deep river bends
|
| Had a long rope tied to a tree
|
| Takin' turns on a swing, takin' turns takin' drinks
|
| And I don’t mean iced tea
|
| A good buzz later playin' chicken with the gators
|
| Way too young to be scared, growin' up down there
|
| And those tan little peaches turnin' us on
|
| Keepin' things hot all summer long
|
| If I could back in a second I swear
|
| Well, I’d still be growin' up down there
|
| Well, nothin' going on ever lasted too long
|
| We were good at makin' good times
|
| Find a field spread the word keep a bonfire burnin'
|
| Through both ends of the night
|
| Had the radio up, had a keg in a truck
|
| Tryin' to get lucky somewhere
|
| Growin' up down there
|
| And those tan little peaches turnin' us on
|
| Keepin' things hot all summer long
|
| If I could back in a second I swear
|
| Well, I’d still be growin' up down there
|
| And those tan little peaches turnin' us on
|
| Keepin' things hot all summer long
|
| If I could back in a second I swear
|
| Well I’d still be growin' up down there
|
| Yeah, lookin' back now man it don’t seem fair
|
| If you didn’t get to do your growin' up down there |