Mud Mouth

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