Yeah
I feel the breeze coming in
I smell the smoke on the pen
That country boy killing these motherfuckers
Pullin' up in the box, I'm around the bend
Sticking this pocket like trap rappers
Here for the meal bitch, I brought a bowl
Carry the wei, ght like I'm hauling oats
Got 'em clearing that dope like that Conoco
Who's that motherfucker Billy?
We can rock out and go hook out in Harlem
Who would cosign this white boy
Jimmy I piss out a starter
Fed with a long handle spoon
Got an attitude, yeah, I'm a problem
Got a chip on the shoulder
'Cause I'm from 'Bama
Alabama boys ain't 'bout no caution
My destiny ain't second-guessing
Ain't gonna filter expression
They hit me with stereotypes
I decline, I ain't gonna answer the question

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'm gonna 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
Fucking 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 red man
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, swept like a felt hat
808's hitta's breaking 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'm gonna twist the lid

To 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 boring hook
Bitch I'm red Atlanta, Circa Dungeon fell in 1998 swag, yeah
If you know then you know, if you don't then consider yourself runnin' late rap, yeah
Black on them made that check
Playing tape with the playback, yeah
With them hippies like way back, yeah
In the kitchen, they make crack, yeah
Still mobbing deep and I'm not sure
I just sold out the show, got the spot booked
Blinders on like a Tennessee Walking Horse
Tunnel vision I'm focused, do not look
Like a book, I see them laying back
Billy ain't the one, he ain't sayin' that
Got a bigger budget, need to pay it back
Drop a fucking 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'm gonna twist the lid