The South got its ass kicked in the Civil War, sure,
but don’t kid yourself—those bastards rose again.
Cold War rolled in, and while the suits up north
were sipping martinis, the good ol’ boys
down in the dirt heard the call.
Korea, Vietnam—jets screaming overhead,
pilots with drawls thick as mud,
and back home, NASA’s grunts,
rednecks in coveralls counting it down:
five, four, three, two, one—boom,
or mock one, mock two, whatever the hell,
it’s that slow Southern growl
that punched us into the stars.
Then the War on Terror hit,
and those same crazy sons of bitches
climbed out of the swamps and trailer parks,
boots on, guns up, ready to bleed again.
So here’s a shot—cheap whiskey, not champagne—
to the warriors, the scarred-up, loudmouth South,
men and women who don’t quit,
who’d spit in the devil’s eye