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Where have the rebels gone... [Chorus - Luke Combs:] Cause we don't need Another pretty boy, singing pretty songs Fake country boys, doing country all wrong Need another Haggard, or a Johnny Cash Somebody chewing tobacco, and whipping ass I need a preacher, I need a savior How about y'all? Can I get an outlaw? Let me get an outlaw like the man who raised me up Haulin chickens to Kentucky in the back of beat up trucks Because all I'm seeing now is Hollywood wearing some hunting gear And T.V. shows bout idiots that think country is drinking beer I'm sick of seeing skinny jeans smiling like a cover girl I wanna see some kids outback with .22's poppin squirrels I wanna see some young guns goin out on that duck hunt And lesser of these flat bed bird and acting like a lazy bum These trends got it twisted and they make country a petty style Now where's all my country folks that could actually go survive When that stock market crashes I'll be somewhere deep off in these pines Killin shit, kicking ass, and taking what the hell is mine [Chorus] Songtexte I got scars on my knuckles from a loud mouth in the parking lot Knife wounds in my back from so called friends that take that lie a lot There's snakes up in the grass but bubba shit I'm used to walkin tall And if I feel you're talkin shit won't second guess to jack your jaw Today the world we live in really tends to wash and fade away That's why if you ain't walkin shit then I don't care for shit you say I met the folks I idolize and so far they're some white ass lies Just country fakin good disguise Now tell me how that tends to fly I'm on my southern ride twang baby come and roll with me Backwoods as it gets and not the shit that you see on T.V. I'm talking Chevy Z10 kickin up some brown rocks 30 ought 6 with a cedar stained woodstock [Chorus] I stay coming in like a rock so they be calling me the Scottsdale Cornbread fed and you know I'm raising plenty hell I'm turned up like some honkies at a kegger party in a hotel And I'm breaking down these barriers like drywalling these repairs I'm cold with my shit boy I'm cold with my style boy That backwoods, that hick town, that late night, that drivin round That George Straight cranked real loud Got lightening bugs on my windshield That back road no cops found and I'm sippin on that hot brown I wreck shit my motto got rednecks by the truckload That smell good stay sprayed on I hit downtown and take girls home That bonfire light that up home grown shit roll one I got a gun rack in by back glass and a big gun it holds one [Chorus] Aus Songtexte Mania