Oh I wish I could be with my honey,
drinkin’ beer, shootin’ guns and makin’ money.
We used to do this every Sunday:
drink beer, shoot guns and make money.
Playin’ hold ’em at the range every Keg Night,
shootin’ bottles as we drink ’em at the cock fight–
she’s the baddest ho a pimp could know, but she’s all sweet,
packin’ heat at the meetings down on Wall Street.
My girl mounted the gun rack on our truck,
and she can suck a candy till it’s gone (that’s normal).
I seen her bag a seventeen-point buck (17!),
sell it online and then unwind with a Belgian blonde.
IPA, IRA and hollow-point ammo
at our roadside stand of homebrew wearing camo.
Gettin’ buzzed, hijacking trucks of hops and barley–
can’t forget Russian Roulette for cash with Charley.
(Repeat first verse)
(Repeat chorus last line twice)