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