Lyrics Ballad of a Southern Man (Acoustic) - Whiskey Myers

My first rifle was a .243,
Papa gave Daddy and Daddy gave to me,
And they taught me how to shoot with a steady hand,
I guess that's something 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 something you don't understand.

Grandmas in the kitchen;
Papas drunk past dawn;
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 something you don't understand.

I still fly that southern flag,
Whislin dixie loud enough to brag.
And I know all the words to simple man,
I guess that's something you don't understand.
I 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 something you don't understand.

Grandmas in the kitchen;
Papas drunk past dawn;
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 something you don't understand.

They'll grind us up in a big machine;
They'll feed us all on the same beliefs,
Holy dollar and a credit card;but we got a way of doing things,
And no bankers gonna steal from me;
They wanna tear it all apart.

Grandmas in the kitchen;
Papas 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 something you don't understand.

My first rifle was a .243,
Papa gave Daddy and Daddy gave to me.