Raise Hell and Eat Cornbread

de Upchurch

Church
Yeah, yeah
Everybody gon' be like
Ayy man this bar is like duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh
Motherfucker, I'm bored, okay, it's 1:18 in the morning
Hahaha, yeah

Don't make me come out on that porch in my pajama's with an AR
I be flippin songs like my first name is Daewon
I be struttin' in my jeans like a Levi commercial
Yeah, fuck the television I be peelin' on 'em partna
I got better shit to do, you don't need to find me
I don't chill with models there's badder bitches in Tennessee (you know it)
And they down to tailgate like the parkin' lot full
Everybody's Jersey lookin' dark and light blue
I am from the same damn city that gave G-Unit the Young Buck
Same city All Star shot somebody inside of McDonald's
Same city Struggle Jennings got arrested and went to prison
Same city that sang: It's okay to be itty bitty
It's hard being a rapper 'cause they don't know how I'm livin' (for real)
If you think there ain't country boys bumpin' Gotti you trippin'
Six strang, to the boom boom clap, and the trunk space
Souls blacker than a Slumerican shirt rack mane
Nashville ain't blockin' I was born out here
My birth certificate more legitimate than your 360 deal
Watch me bust this 900 add a couple triple kick flips
While bumpin' Three 6 at McDonald's out on West End
Just left hella stoned from the nations by the H&H
Call my homie tell him police settin' at the four way
I'm headed back to Cheatham highway 70 the fast way
Only a tourist need GPS up on the dash bae

'Round hear dashboards are for lady's to put there feet on
So soon as we done swimmin', your towel is up in the toolbox
You tryna hit that sonic and put some vodka in the fruit punch?
And stop at the Citco and get one of them White Owl Blunts
I'm a Trailer Park Boy, no Bubbles, Ricky, or Julian
I'm talkin' basketball shorts, wife beater wearin' Hooligans
Shout out to Showtime, remember back in the day
When you recorded: Low pro's and I'm fresh out the gate
And I didn't go to Hillwood but now I'm chillin' on the hilltop
No school parkin' lot, truck still gettin' hot boxed
Yeah, in one of my songs I stay: I'm stuck on 17
Still in the same town doin' the same damn shit
But that's me, yeah I know I make change
But I ain't gotta make change to make change
That's facts in the bank
It's my facts in the way, this ain't a act that I made
It's the actual way, yeah I'm backwoods raised
Yeah muthafucka 6-1-5, 'cause what the fuck is a 6-2-9?
That's the overflow of banjos and neon lights
I don't no nothin' 'bout this fuckin' Instagram life
So if you buyin' followers then you just preachin' to ya self (true)
And if ain't nobody listenin' then you foolin' ya self
Yeah lil' bitch I rhymed word with word
I sheep the herd, you're pissed, I'ma turd, the stench is herb

I'm smokin' weed off Exit 24 'cause it's convenient
The landfill smells like ass, and my windows hella tinted (goddamn)
I'd rather see a car with blue bands from Metro (woo)
Than a Ashland City Intercepter, that's no joke
They didn't pray on my downfall, they prayed for my death drop
That's why my middle fingers stuck up like I'm Kid Rock
Yeah I Bawitdaba with tired bald as recaps
Man it's been four years, they still claimin' I'm a short fad
Well muthafucker go and call Guinness World Records
I guess I win for losin' 'cause I still sell records
I ain't got no platinums, if I did they would be faded
'Cause I'd melt them bitches down and make a Chevrolet emblem
I'm the southside boy, with that southside look
I ain't got no horses, I got Mustangs son
And every street in my town look hella hella old
I'ma take my ass down all these roads

Church