Ballad Of A Southern Man

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.