Slur

They got a tongue that twists and turns and spits, a pocket knife, whatever fits
A gallon cold, of liquor folded up, next to the speaker
That preacher got a mouth on him, his shoes that shine, the widest brim
Ro tip his hat to all the choir coming through the speaker

I love my flag, I love my lawn
But I’m told soon, this will all be gone
But I’ll sit here in my old wooden chair
Cos I wake up at night and I am sweating with a fever

They got a gun to shoot to kill to sit with
On my lap and polish it with
The blackest coal from Boothill sold at Texaco don’t he slur
His words and speech the drawl and drip, the chew and spit of all of it
A gallon cold of liquor sold at Texaco don’t he slur

I lovе my flag, I love my lawn
But I’m told soon, this will all be gone
But I’ll sit hеre in my old wooden chair
Cos I wake up at night and I am sweating with a fever