My first rifle was a .243

Papa gave Daddy and Daddy gave to me

And they taught me how to shoot with a steady handI guess that′s somethin' you don′t understand

Now, I grew up on a prison farm

Sneaking pulls of shine from a mason jar

Used to go fishing out Pickle Creek dam

But I guess that's somethin' you don′t understand

Grandma′s in the kitchen

Papa's done past on

We sit out on the front porch

Just a pickin′ on the songs

And there's blood on the table

′Cause we work for what we have

And I was raised in this land

I guess that's somethin′ you don't understand

And I still fly that southern flag

Whistling Dixieland enough to brag

And I know all the words to simple man

I guess that's somethin′ you don′t understand

Pledge my allegiance the original way

Say, Merry Christmas not happy holidays

I can't change my ways, I know who I am

I guess that′s somethin' you don′t understand

Grandma's in the kitchen

Papa′s done past on

We sit out on the front porch

Just a pickin' on the songs

There's blood on the table

′Cause we work for what we have

I was raised in this land

I guess that′s somethin' you don′t understand

A pile of soap and a big machine

I'll feed us all on the same beliefs

Holy dollar and a credit card

But we got a way of doin′ things

And no bankers gonna steal from me

They wanna tear it all apart

Grandma's in the kitchen

Papa′s done past on

We sit out on the front porch

Just a pickin' on the songs

And there's a bible on the table

′Cause he bleed for what we have

And that′s the ballad of a southern man

I guess that's somethin′ you don't understand

My first rifle was a .243

Papa gave Daddy and Daddy gave to me