My first rifle was a .243,
Papa gave Daddy and Daddy gave to me,
and they taught me how to shoot with a steady hand,
I guess that's something you don't understand.
Now I grew up on a prison farm,
sneaking pulls of shine from a mason jar,
used to go fishing out pickle creek dam,
but I guess that's something you don't understand.
Grandmas in the kitchen;
Papas drunk past dawn
We sit out on the front porch,
Just a pickin' on the songs
and there's blood on the table,
cause we work for what we have;
and I was raised in this land,
I guess that's something you don't understand.
I still fly that southern flag,
whistling Dixieland enough to brag,
and I know all the words to simple man,
I guess that's something you don't understand.
I pledge my allegiance the original way,
say Merry Christmas not happy holidays,
I can't change my ways I know who I am,
I guess that's something you don't understand.
Grandmas in the kitchen;
Papas drunk past dawn;
we sit out on the front porch,
just a pickin' on the songs;
and there's blood on the table,
cause we work for what we have;
and I was raised in this land,
I guess that's something you don't understand.
They'll grind us up in a big machine
They'll feed us all on the same beliefs,
Holy dollar and a credit card
but we got a way of doing things,
and no bankers gonna steal from me
they wanna tear it all apart.
Grandmas in the kitchen
Papas done past on
we sit out on the front porch,
just a pickin' on the songs;
and there's a bible on the table,
cause he bleed for what we have,
and that's the ballad of a southern man,
I guess that's something you don't understand.
My first rifle was a .243,
Papa gave Daddy and Daddy gave to me.