Lyrics:
Pick a little cotton
And put it in the wagon
Make it to the gin and then
Get yourself some money
And take out your honey
And do it all over
AK
Then get on the way
On a mission, puffin' on a fat ass jay
Prude, you can't hang
Flash back on the skills when I used to bang
On the corner
AK
Then get on the way
On a mission, puffin' on a fat ass jay
Prude, you can't hang
Flash back on the skills when I used to bang
On the corner
in the back of a paddy wagon
I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dead
A big Flintstones lump on the side of my head
They took my picture
in the back of a paddy wagon
I pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dead
A big Flintstones lump on the side of my head
They took my picture
They sent us fetuccine with some ranch sauce
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
We built a little city on a bad fault
It shook a little and we had a bad fall
come anywhere near us,
Mighty neighborly, mighty neighborly.
So we used a lot of our backs, a little of our brains
We jacked up the jacks,
It's Lil Tre
Been a boss since the little nigga wit the fade
Hair grew, pockets ehh but I'm still the same
Sike nigga, think that little boy grew
outsource the wattage
And I'm sleeping now (Wow!) And the settlers laugh
You won't be laughing when your covered wagons crash
You won't be laughing when
somebody reached over and he hit me on the jaw
They had us blocked off from front to back
They was puttin' 'em in the wagon like potatoes in a sack
It was
Station wagon tires, flying
Katie's counting crows through the
Tears in her blue eyes
State lines and capitals go rushing
By as I'm trying to find
Old Red eyes is back
Red from the night before the night before
Walked into the wrong bar walked into a door
Old Red's in town
And sitting late
to blow him away.
He said he had some work and a place to stay.
So, I followed Pedro back to the ranch of a man named
Chisholm with a sordid past. Pedro
had begun impacting the Roofs
Of mobile offices by the rim, quickening snare rolls of a forward March played by a twelve-year-old soldier
Purpose fled
Flies in the buttermilk, two by two...
Files in the sugar bowl, shoo, shoo, shoo...
Chorus
Little red wagon painted blue...
Going to Texas, two by
California King Ranch out in the drive
Just waiting on ya baby to take you a ride
On my 8 inch lifted 6 foot 4 by
Tailgate dropped way back in
him through the head
Those young Dalton daughters grew up seeing red
Now it's thirty-some-odd years gone spent hunting for those men
But by God, when
back-to-back, I hardly get rest
I fuck her like Thugger, just want me some sex
I'm never sober, too much of this red
Designer my cover, I drip in the bed
Ready to exalt all you toe tag wearing bag herring
Red lettering forgetting function better the
Opposition comfort sock leather fox and all
Where this from
It's my world, give you pearls, give you world
I can buy it by the pound
She can't stop, she wanting rounds
Back, back, back, back, back
Just keep it simple, walk the line, and let God do the rest
Back home on his little ranch He would wake to the rooster's crow
He'd bust his knuckles all
the heartlander
Bringin' country grammar back
Yeah I used to play that
On a tape deck
In my Ford Ranger
Now you got me goin' way back
To when I used to roll down
My
next up, that's something I'm confident in, put my face on the front of a Fader
I'm the one, rock two-three all over my back, and go crown me the king
through Mexico
We hitched a ride from an old pickup
And climbed in with the chickens in the back of the truck
I got to Tijuana by the middle of the day
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