[ Featuring Luke Combs ]
Where have the rebels gone
We don't need another pretty boy singing pretty songs
Fake country boys, doing country all wrong
Need another Haggard or a Johnny Cash
Somebody chewing baccer and whipping ass
I need a preacher, I need a savior, how about y'all?
Can I get an outlaw?
Let me get a outlaw like the man who raised me up
Hauling chickens to Kentucky in the back of beat up trucks
Because all I'm seeing now is Hollywood wearing some hunting gear
And T.V. shows 'bout idiots that think country is drinking beer
Sick of seeing skinny jeans smiling like a cover girl
I wanna see some kids outback with .22's popping squirrels
I wanna see some young guns going out on a duck hunt
And lesser of this Flappy Bird and acting like a lazy bum
'Cause trends got it twisted and they make country a petty style
Now, where's all my country folks that actually could go survive
When that stock market crashes I'll be somewhere deep off in these pines
Killing shit, kicking ass, and taking what the hell is mine
We don't need another pretty boy singing pretty songs
Fake country boys, doing country all wrong
Need another Haggard, or a Johnny Cash
Somebody chewing baccer and whipping ass
I need a preacher, I need a savior, how about y'all?
Can I get an outlaw?
I got scars on my knuckles from a loud mouth in the parking lot
Knife wounds in my back from so called friends that tend to lie a lot
There's snakes up in the grass, but, bubba shit, I'm used to walking tall
And if I feel you're talking shit, won't second guess to jack your jaw
Today the world we live in, realness tends to wash and fade away
That's why if you ain't walking shit then I don't care for shit you say
I met the folks I idolize and so far they're some white ass lies
Just country faking good disguise, now tell me how that tends to fly
I'm on my southern rhyme twang, baby, come and roll with me
Backwoods as it gets and not the shit that you see on T.V
I'm talking Chevy C10, kicking up some brown rocks
.30-06 with a cedar-stained wood stock
We don't need another pretty boy singing pretty songs
Fake country boys, doing country all wrong
Need another Haggard, or a Johnny Cash
Somebody chewing baccer and whipping ass
I need a preacher, I need a savior, how about y'all?
Can I get an outlaw?
I stay coming in like a rock so they be calling me the Scottsdale
Cornbread fed and you know I'm raising plenty hell
I'm turnt up like some honkies at a kegger party in a hotel
And I'm breaking down these barriers like drywall that needs repairs
I'm cold with my shit, boy, I'm cold with my style, boy
That backwoods, that hick town, that late night, that driving 'round
That George Straight cranked real loud, got lightening bugs on my windshield
That back road, no cops found and I'm sipping on that hot brown
I wreck shit, my motto, got rednecks by the truckload
That smell good stay sprayed on, I hit downtown and take girls home
That bonfire, light that up, home grown shit, roll one
I got a gun rack in by back glass and a big gun, it holds one
We don't need another pretty boy singing pretty songs
Fake country boys, doing country all wrong
Need another Haggard, or a Johnny Cash
Somebody chewing baccer and whipping ass
I need a preacher, I need a savior, how about y'all?
Can I get an outlaw?
