Well, you've called my kinfolk trash all their lives
And I'm a chip off the heap, ask any one of my ex-wives
I'm a social drinker, and I stay social all I can
I'm a deer-snuffin', chain-smokin', simple kinda southern man First you gut our farms, strip-mall all the five-and-dimes
Then you tax our so-called sins, call our pleasures a crime
Now you're turnin' our music into some strange elevator noise
Think it's time for us to win one back for the good ol' boys You can paint stripes on a billy goat/call it a tiger if it floats your boat
You can make a star of a teenage girl
But one million dollars won't make her Merle
Laser beams, navel rings, and a pretty face might be something
But you can kiss my Ozark a**, if that's country There's a certain song that's got my local station stuck
It's got a steel guitar, and I believe it mentions a truck
But the singer don't sound like he ever worked a stick shift
Sounds more like bad Phil Collins with a hick facelift Now I ain't denyin' them suburban moms their fun
But don't you try to tell me it's the way hank wanted it done
You better keep your money-grubbin' hands off the poor man's song
And make sure Chris Gaines stays the hell offa my front lawn You can take an ear from a barnyard sow/milk it 'til it turns into a cash cow
You can lead a chick to a watering-hole
But you can't make her drink 'til she gets white soul
Might be rock, might be schlock, might be the Beatles or monkeys
But you can kiss my Ozark a**, if that's country