Yeah
I feel the breeze comin' in
I smell the smoke on the pen
That country boy killin' these motherfuckers
Pullin' up in the box, I'm around the bend
Stick in his pocket like trap rappers
Here for the meal, bitch, I brought a bowl
Carry the weight like I'm haulin' oats
Got 'em clearin' they throat like they caught a cold
Who's that motherfucker Billy?
With Kid Rock and crew, hung out in Harlem
Who would cosign this white boy?
Jimmy Iovine saw the stardom
Fed with a long handled spoon
Got an attitude, yeah, I'm a problem
Got a chip on the shoulder 'cause I'm from 'Bama
Alabama boys ain't about caution
My destiny ain't second-guessin'
Ain't gonna filter expression
They hit me with stereotypes
I decline, I ain't gonna answer the questions
I'm funky as fuck, that's all it is
For the honkies in trucks and the kids
Just a product of southern environment
Mason jar full of shine, I'ma twist the lid
Bought me some Cartier shades
Threw them bitches in the lake
Swim to the bottom to find 'em
Swim back to the top with an old grenade
Look what I found, Cambo
Pull the pin, buddy, what do you say?
Fuck it, here we go
See, blowin' up ain't never safe
Fuckin' dead man with the lead man
Caught a wig like I came with a Steadman's
Slum bakery, how I'm bread, man
Turn my nick in the dirt like I'm Redman
See, the future with me in the Chevy van
Like a peyote trip in the red sand
Drop another classic in the set, man
Go on, pull the plastic on the bed, man
Got the drip, hot, sweat like a felt hat
808 hit is breakin' these icecaps
Son of a bitch, yeah, I like that
Take a look at your soul, what a sight, dad
I'm funky as fuck, that's all it is
For the honkies in trucks and the kids
Just a product of southern environment
Mason jar full of shine, I'ma twist the lid
Too rock and roll, had to cut it up
Like I ran up in a thorn bush
Stop, drop, and roll, you ain't dope enough
With them silly ass rhymes and that borin' hook
Bitch, I'm bred Atlanta
Circa Dungeon Family, 1998 swag, yeah
If you know then you know
If you don't then consider yourself runnin' late rap, yeah
Back on them eight decks, yeah
Playin' tape with the playback, yeah
With them hippies like way back, yeah
In the kitchen, they made crack, yeah
Still mobbin' deep and I'm not shook
I just sold out the show, got the spot booked
Blinders on like a Tennessee Walkin' Horse
Tunnel vision, I'm focused, do not look
Like a bucket seat, I'm layin' back
Billy ain't the one, ye ain't sayin' that
Got a bigger budget, need to pay it back
Drop a fuckin' heater on a Maytag
I'm funky as fuck, that's all it is
For the honkies in trucks and the kids
Just a product of southern environment
Mason jar full of shine, I'ma twist the lid
