| Tonight it’s hot down here |
| I can almost smell the rain |
| And I can almost taste the fear |
| Behind your name |
| Fans turning on the ceiling |
| I feel sticky as a chili dog |
| White boys howling in the evening |
| On that hollow log |
| Tall tales down the river |
| Say we aim to bury the truth |
| But the right hand just delivered |
| The devil in a suit |
| And he talks big in Whitewash County |
| Talks sweet as sugar cane |
| Got a past that’s filled with lightning |
| Got a future filled with rain |
| Bug buzzing in an empty glass |
| Fiddle scratching some lazy tune |
| We’re just some place that history passed |
| New dust, new broom |
| And it’s a high hot buttered moon |
| He’s got a shiny new wax face |
| Swears the South’s gonna rise again soon |
| All over the place |
| Rain down on Whitewash County |
| Smell the air coming up the line |
| Well you’ve changed your face so often |
| But you never change your mind |