all us good ole' boys
in Bamalama
got to fight for
the right to kiss
these southern Belle misses,

It's slim pickens and farmers daughters
guarded by big corn fed brothers
daddies shotgun, here, in Dixie.

I don't have a John Deere or a jacked up
four wheel drive pickup,
my accent is acquired from all the years,
to them sounds unnatural,
my drawl.

Hell, I don't do nothin'
no more, but fight,
it's like a civil war, I wear
a smile, you know, cause the
farmer's daughters,
fortunately are curious.

I wear a black eye
and red lipstick mark,
on my collar.