| I look in the mirror sometimes and think about how it all started
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| Small town Alabama, from city life we departed
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| Not a single light in the street, morning was scary and dark
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| To a little boy catching the bus to school, 5:30 sharp
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| I used to make up songs to keep my mind from wondering
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| What was in the woods waiting for me, my stomach still rumbling
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| From the cereal diet
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| Even though mama was trying to do the best that she could
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| Alcohol made her violent
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| Her boyfriend was a prick, probably 26
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| Barely looked my direction and really didn’t do shit
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| My animosity grew along with my anger
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| And impatience, disaster in school
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| My teachers knew I was trouble waiting
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| And I did too, admittedly but I liked it
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| Maybe I had to accept I’d always be uninvited to church events, football and
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| family oriented stuff
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| But I never thought I had it rough
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| I embraced it, honestly, 'cause I knew how different I was
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| It made me a rebel and rebels made me feel welcomed and loved
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| I never knew my daddy, but they said that I was the same and what a shame,
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| get your umbrella Wayne
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| Here comes the heavy rain
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| 'Cause I’m the lighting to your storm
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| The bloodstain after a dogfight
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| The tornado to your alarm
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| Your hangover after a long night
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| I’m the snake outta your barn
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| That one mistake you ever did right
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| The gunpowder to your drum
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| I’m your son
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| The son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| If life is but a dream
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| I’m up the creek in a paddle boat
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| Streams full of snakes, demons, not even a ladder goes
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| Up high and over the Mississippi to see the ocean, so here I go floatin', yeah
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| But I made it a habit though
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| 19 and tattooed, hell raisin', the neighborhood was the place and I made it
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| home with the vagrants
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| Quarter pound of that seeded Mexican trash slinging nickles
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| Making nothing and breaking even, just do it for tickles
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| Nashville’s under icicles, the Methadone’s penetratin'
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| Ecstasy-hungry, baited as an experimentation
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| No more chocolate-chip cookies, and porcelain jars
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| Morbid and dark are my role models, and old-school cars
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| Sickening and I’m lovin' it
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| I’m basking in half of it
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| Backstrokin' in sinnin' ways, a dagger to pastors
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| I never knew my daddy, but they said that I was the same and what a shame
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| Here come the cocaine in the heavy rain
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| 'Cause I’m the lighting to your storm
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| The bloodstain after a dogfight
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| The tornado to your alarm
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| Your hangover after a long night
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| I’m the snake outta your barn
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| That one mistake you ever did right
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| The gunpowder to your drum
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| I’m your son
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| The son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| And you can tell that I still don’t give a fuck
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| Still drinking whiskey I’m half-a-bottle already down
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| Slumerican-made man, Criminals all around
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| Seventy-thousand dollars a night isn’t good luck
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| Livin' a story usin' my war as my shield
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| The truth, examined and recreated
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| The following’s real:
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| Plenty of fatherless children fill up the pit in the buildin'
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| Usin' the mind for the feelin', it’s just like poppin' a pill
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| And I’m takin' it in
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| Lost, and makin' a win
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| Thanks for the poems that you inspired, I’m rakin' it in
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| Never heard you say «give me five,» so make it a ten
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| Keep the change cuz I’m ballin', look at the bastard of him
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| When I went to jail for the first time, I thought about you
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| Son of a bitch, I admit it, I guess the rumours are true
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| 'Cause when I look in the mirror, I see from what I 'came
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| Trial by fire, pain, heavy rain
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| 'Cause I’m the lighting to your storm
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| The bloodstain after a dogfight
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| The tornado to your alarm
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| Your hangover after a long night
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| I’m the snake outta your barn
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| That one mistake you ever did right
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| The gunpowder to your drum
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| I’m your son
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| The son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| Son of a gun
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| Son of a gun |