PUT ON YOUR BOOTS

Wisdom is whatcha get from a lifetime a doin dumb shit

Memory paraphrasin a poster a my past—get the gist butcha gotta touch the flame

Motha said it was hot—gonna burn my finger

But I gotta know about the fire and getting advise and takin it ain’t the same

Just strivin’ to be a wise one not a ‘bedient bitch

Vietnam vet say don’t raise your hand—don’t go to the front

But if ya do—lay low, aim low and keep that fucker on full auto

So I take point—put on every ‘chute I’m given

Survived kicked outtabit smatta than I was befo

Loyalty brotha hood—balls like a crate a live hand grenades

Swingin watches from the hands a the rich

Easier said than done—sucked in by the fun

Bitches fuck ya then frag ya with shrapnel size of a ring

Brain me and beat me messy like a back-alley hysterectomy

Whatch get for doin dumb shit…

No need to comment—I can smell your sweat and your fear

I know your bitch ass is here

Up on my back—showin off lunkers larger than mine. Always gratin

Nothin but baby stones with the anonymous hatin

Bad enough I got ex’s trippin in waders cause she lookin ‘round and the best guide’s missin

But like Bobby says, It ain’t me Babe

I’m up Coal Creek—yeah, I got it made

So just don’t do it.

Don’t be confused by the tone of my voice it ain’t me just my soft-hearted muse

I got it today I get it all the time

Hip-huggin hippies love me ‘cause I can rhyme

And the rednecks and bigots I meet on the river think I’m down with the cause

‘cause they been hearin the street—Byrd’s packin heat

So just don’t do it…

Gotta better chance a takin Tyson in the 90’s

Like they say in the Hill Top sect

I’m Boba Fett with an intellect

Another ring from the Hamma—you can’t touch this shit

My words will hit ya like a flyin knee

Straight to the face like LIVE FROM THE UFC!

And they won’t bruise your brain like a fall from your bicycle, bra…

They’ll leave ya drinkin a lifetime a burgers from a motha fuckin straw


Throwin knees in the UFC…

I ain’t another limp-wristed bag a tea

God-fearin white kid from the 303

Raised like a little boy version a JonBenét

My blood’s rich from the Father Land, mixed with crooks from the land of the Oz

And I’ll drop my pack, pen and my rod

Put a felt boot to your neck—curb ya like American History X