| Shake a man’s hand and look him in the eye
|
| Is that so hard to do?
|
| Don’t blow smoke, don’t tell lies
|
| Son, just tell the truth
|
| There’s rumors going round all around town
|
| You’ve been talking shit
|
| You say I can’t play and ya say I can’t sing
|
| And my songs they won’t be hits
|
| I’ve never been a very violent man
|
| I’d rather be drinkin' beer
|
| But that’s the name Granddaddy gave me
|
| And let me make it clear
|
| You’re gonna shut your mouth
|
| Or say it to my face
|
| Or I’m gonna use your ass
|
| Like a broom to sweep this place
|
| Go on and call up your friends
|
| You better bring a few
|
| Cause I come from a different time
|
| Where the men where all Old School
|
| I’ve seen your kind a thousand times
|
| All baby faced and cute
|
| No calluses on your hands
|
| No scuffs upon your boots
|
| You prolly think the Hollar
|
| Is a rap song in your car
|
| You don’t know the first damn thing
|
| About playing these smokey bars
|
| You’re gonna shut your mouth
|
| Or say it to my face
|
| Or I’m gonna use your ass
|
| Like a broom to sweep this place
|
| Go on and call up your friends
|
| You better bring a few
|
| Cause I come from a different time
|
| Where the men where all Old School
|
| I don’t care if you want to speak your mind, son
|
| You got somethin' to say?
|
| All I ask you stand up, grow some balls and say it to my face
|
| Cause if I keep hearing whispers, son
|
| You’re still talking shit
|
| You’re gonna owe me gas money to get back over here
|
| And it’s gonna be «talk shit — get hit»
|
| You’re gonna shut your mouth
|
| Or say it to my face
|
| Or I’m gonna use your ass
|
| Like a broom to sweep this place
|
| Go on and call up your friends
|
| You better bring a few
|
| Cause I come from a different time
|
| Where the men where all Old School
|
| I come from a different time
|
| Cause my Granddaddy sure was Old School
|
| It’s up to you, son
|
| This «talk shit — get hit»
|
| What you said? |
| I don’t hear nothin'
|
| Damn, that’s what I talk
|
| I’m waiting |