| When you came rollin' round, loud and proud
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| With your boys talkin' about all that city slang
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| Act like we don’t know a thing
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| Just like we’re some backwoods rejects
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| Barely write a bad check
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| Bass fishin', cousin kissin'
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| Nothin' but a bunch of rednecks
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| I’m about to let you know, son
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| We was raised on them shotguns
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| And none of us ever gonna back down
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| We’re proud of bein' small town
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| Better listen to me close before you keep runnin' that lip
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| 'Cause there’s a fifty-fifty chance
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| That you might get your ass whipped
|
| Fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty
|
| Let me tell you how it’s goin' down, all up in here
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| Everybody know just who you is
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| Momma, daddy and your kids
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| Seen you at the Walmart
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| Caught you over about the Dairy Queen
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| Called your wife 'bout an hour ago
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| Said you was at the bar with Jolene
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| Now you’re talkin' crazy talk son
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| Drunk as hell, hardly walk, son
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| Tellin' us you the big cheese
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| 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
|
| Fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty, yeah fifty-fifty
|
| Fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty, fifty-fifty, yeah fifty-fifty |