Boots and Chains

Grandaddy’s boots, stomping in the red clay grime,

Pickup truck bounce, swerving through the county line.

Belt buckle shining, bling tougher than your spine,

Got a grill full of gold, but the chili still divine.

Chain swinging ’round like a lasso on the breeze,

Cornbread cooking like these rhymes, wild and free.

Moonshine drip colder than the creek on my knees,

Holler at the posse, hear 'em singing through the trees.

Boots and chains, we do our thing,

Fields to the city, let freedom ring.

Bassline thump with a twang that sting,

A country heart with a kingpin swing.

Wranglers lose threads from the hay in my seat,

Shoebox full of lyrics underneath the split-rail feat.

Venom in my flow, rattlers can’t compete,

Rooster crowin' loud, morning’s never obsolete.

Bridge the gap from barns to the avenues,

Kicking cowboy dust onto culture cues.

Chopping firewood and beats like it’s dues,

Country soul but my swagger refuse.

Boots and chains, we do our thing,

Steel toe stomping, let banjo strings zing.

Skrrt through meadows where echoes swing,

A country diary with my bars full of zing.