Uh-Merica

Mrs. E Roosevelt never heard me shoot my gun
Mrs. E Roosevelt didn't even know I owned one
Somewhere between the cobblestone floor and the slated wooden ceiling
Cuddling my semi-automatic, what a very fuzzy feeling
Oh...there's nothing like emptying a cartridge at the sun

Uh-merica

Oh we're born alone and then we're covered by m-m-m-mother's kisses
The mind has already forgotten what the body still misses

Somewhere between the sticky floor and the cracks in the ceiling
Cuddling my semi-automatic, what a very fuzzy feeling
Oh...there's nothing like emptying a cartridge at the sun

Uh-merica

There's nothing like emptying a cartridge at the sun