Dope boy, dope boy, dope boy, nigga (yeah) Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it, run it up Got a bitch to get the bread 'cause the bank playin' Dope boy, count, count, dope boy, count, count (yeah) That's when I have some cool water that I whip slow

It's a small town throwdown Crank that country up loud Its time to tall boy up let them tailgates down Yea Man its on tonight right into morning light Its time to tall boy up Let them tailgates down Round these parts there ain't much to do Except work

Every back road, we've ever gone down Friday night bleachers, Sunday pews Ain't a county line mile without a memory of you Every whisper, every room, I walk in Every time the bartender fills it up again Everybody knows why I'm here, and you ain't around

You love me, you hate me You make me, you break me And I don't know what I do it for I'm somewhere in the middle of you Phones lighting up, grab my favourite shirt and my keys on the counter 'Cause you said you wanna dance Halfway down the drive, must

You got the love To see me through Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air Sometimes I feel like saying "Lord I just don't care" But you've got the love I need I know I can count on you Sometimes it seems the going is just too rough And

Yankee Doodle, keep it up Yankee Doodle dandy Mind the music and the step And with the girls be handy Yankee Doodle went to town A-riding on a pony Stuck a feather in his hat And called it macaroni Father and I went down to camp

All those you've loved All those who've died In darkness we'll rest All we have left is what lives in our minds I know their spirits are up in the sky Count the days down to one last breath So forgive what you can't forget So open your eyes Open your

"Ha oh ho, aw, play something country." Crank up the band, play the steel guitar. Hank it up a little, let's rock this bar. Threw back a shot, yelled "I'm a George Strait junkie." "Ha oh ho, play something country." Yes, she blew through the door like

Run up the money, then count up the commas And go get the money lil' bitch (Money, lil' bitch) Hundred round drum on the Glock These bitches be suckin' and swallowin' dick I swear I can't trust 'em for shit (Trust 'em for shit) Know that's a dusty lil'

I'm the patron saint of the denial With an angel face and a taste for suicidal St. Jimmy's comin' down across the alleyway Up on the boulevard like a zip gun on parade Light of a silhouette He's insubordinate Coming at you on the count of one, two (one,