Shotgun Golf

I was coming apart in public
Falling out for the fuck of it
Paranoid, where half the half-pack's destroyed
Buried it, running it
Making love to the rumble strip
With a reckless abandon
Lusting for Russian Roulette
Out running this cancer
Had me over-tired, over-time, pay keep on decreasing;
You need a place to get away and kick it for the weekend
You need some new diversions when the old shit ain’t appealing
When the rib-crack from the kick-back let you know that you’re still breathing
Now when the neighbours around, can’t play around, get way too loud, gotta wait
Ain’t no country clubs gon' fuck with us
We got guns 'n stuff, okay?
Ain’t here for the bougie-shit, I’m a lunatic, and the crew’s fittin' to go ape
Go ahead
Get a nine iron and some golf balls, and
Some buckshot and a gauge. Ready?
Put it in the air, try to blow it out the sky
You can hate it if you played it, but don’t knock it 'til you tried!
Visibility high, plaid, mix and match and combine
Camo, ammo in the caddy shack and they asking me: Why?
'Cause they got, we got tee-time, three o’clock
Surplus ammunition and don’t seem to agree a lot
Pocket full of shells, bucket full of balls:
It’s shotgun golf
Let’s hit one for Hunter, y’all
Like, BOOM. (Fore!)
It’s shotgun golf!
BOOM. (Fore!)
It’s shotgun golf!
BOOM. (Fore!)
Oh, shut your mouth
(BOOM)
Let’s play shotgun golf! (Fore!)
Let’s play shotgun golf! (Fore!)
It’s not plaid, it is tartan
Get the moms mad that I’m shopping at Walmart
But it’s not for lawn-darts, it’s for shotguns
And the dad’s are all watching!
We shoulda started target practice for lack of stationary objects
But gentrification doesn’t move with the pace of plate tectonics!
There’s a storm-a-coming, hail the size of golf balls!
(Hell naw, they’re golf balls!)
I’m hearing 'yee-haws!' and 'fuck y’alls'
Look at the way that I’m dressed:
I’m not even a member
You want me outta your lane
To go back the way that I came
But I seem to remember this used to be a park
For picnics, God damn petting-zoos
Not electric carts for dipshits with nothing better to do
It’s not enough you’ve got all these beautiful acres for your little arrogant
elitist game
But you need poor people to shame so our:
Click-clack, caddy shack, country club get liberated back
PTSD/ESPN: we need violence to relax
My Jacuzzi weighs a tonne (which fuels me with ammunition)
Now my dress-code is SOS mode
(Fool, hand me my gun!)
'Cause they got, we got tee-time, three o’clock
Surplus ammunition and don’t seem to agree a lot
Pocket full of shells, bucket full of balls:
It’s shotgun golf
Let’s hit one for Hunter, y’all
Like, BOOM. (Fore!)
It’s shotgun golf!
BOOM. (Fore!)
It’s shotgun golf!
BOOM. (Fore!)
We’re running up in your house
(BOOM)
(Now you’re gonna die in that stupid little hat!)
It’s shotgun golf! (Fore!)
It’s like shotgun golf! (Fore!)
BOOM. (Fore!)
(Now you’re gonna die in that stupid little hat!)
It’s shotgun golf!
BOOM. (Fore!)
(Now you’re gonna die in that stupid little hat!)
It’s shotgun golf!
BOOM. (Fore!)
(Now you’re gonna die in that stupid little hat!)
Shut your mouth
(BOOM)
It’s shotgun golf! (Fore!)
It’s like shotgun golf! (Fore!)