| She’s always counting my beers and she’s cutting me off
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| She don’t like none of my friends and she’s scared of my dogs
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| She never wants to party with me on the weekend
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| She’s always picking fights for no good reason, man
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| She hates my old lucky boot, always trashing my truck
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| Telling me what to do, I’m just holding my tongue
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| And my buddies didn’t understand, till I told 'em y’all
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| Her daddy’s got hunting land
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| A couple thousand acres up in Kentucky
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| And little slice of heaven, out in God’s country
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| Break her heart, lose the farm
|
| Ain’t a part of my twelve-point plan
|
| So I’ma bite the bullet, hold it together
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| Try to keep her happy, least till December
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| If I ain’t I’ll be holding her hand
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| 'Cause her daddy’s got hunting land
|
| Soon as I shook his hand, we were hitting it off
|
| Looking up at the stuff hanging up on his wall
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| She rolled her eyes, tried to pull me out
|
| But I’s a deer in headlights when he told me about
|
| A couple thousand acres up in Kentucky
|
| And little slice of heaven, out in God’s country
|
| Break her heart, lose the farm
|
| Ain’t a part of my twelve-point plan
|
| So I’ma bite the bullet, hold it together
|
| Try to keep her happy, least till December
|
| If I ain’t I’ll be holding her hand
|
| 'Cause her daddy’s got hunting land
|
| I probably should’ve for a hundred reasons
|
| But I gotta make it through on rifle season on that
|
| Couple thousand acres up in Kentucky
|
| And little slice of heaven, out in God’s country
|
| Break her heart, lose the farm
|
| Ain’t a part of my twelve-point plan
|
| So I’ma bite the bullet, hold it together
|
| Try to keep her happy, least till December
|
| If I ain’t I’ll be holding her hand
|
| 'Cause her daddy’s got hunting land |