Текст песни: Ballad Of A Southern Man + перевод

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.

Grandma’s in the kitchen;

Papa’s done passed on;

We’d sit out on the front porch,

Just a pickin' on a song;

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,

Whistlin' Dixie loud enough to brag,

And I know all the words to simple man,

I guess that’s something you don’t understand.

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.

Grandma’s in the kitchen;

Papa’s done passed on;

We’d sit out on the front porch,

Just a pickin' on a song;

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.

Grandma’s in the kitchen;

Papa’s done passed on;

We’d sit out on the front porch,

Just a pickin' on a song;

And there’s a Bible on the table,

'Cause he bled 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.

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