I'M SO FRIGGIN' COUNTRY
I'M SO FRIGGIN' COUNTRY
words and music
copyright © 2011 by
Roy Zimmerman
copyright © 2011 by
Roy Zimmerman
If you’re runnin’ down this country
And you’re talkin’ down our flag
You’re walkin’ on the fightin’ side of Merle
I ain’t no urban cowboy
I’m a cowboy, but I’m proud to say I’m rur’l.
You can find me on the front line of the Culture War
With a Bible and a bottle, and a football metaphor
I’m so friggin’ Country
I say “yessir” and “thank you, ma’am”
I put gravy on my gravy
That’s how friggin’ Country I am
From the Stetson on my boot tips
To my pointy little head...
Uh...From my pointy little boot tips
To the Stetson on my head
I’m American as Daddy’s Chevrolet...which is French
And when I start a sentence
With the words, “Well, all I know...” I mean what I say
From the time I was a young’un I been hankerin’
To reenact the Civil War, and this time we win
I’m so friggin’ Country
I’m country-er than the country-est country ham
I use “country” as an adjective
That’s how friggin’ Country I am
I’m small town, down home, home grown, cornfed
Backwoods, one-horse, old school, one old home...schooled horse
And I give voice to the zeitgeist of a dwindling demographic in the twilight of its socio-economic dominance, increasingly insular, tacitly protectionist, with a disproportionate sense of entitlement and a vague, but desperate longing for simpler times which never really existed, a phenomenon Piaget referred to as “faux-stalgia” but which I like to call “The Mayberry Syndrome.”
I’m so friggin’ Country
Son of my mama and my Uncle Sam
I throw roadkill on the barbeque
That’s how friggin’ Country I am
And you’re talkin’ down our flag
You’re walkin’ on the fightin’ side of Merle
I ain’t no urban cowboy
I’m a cowboy, but I’m proud to say I’m rur’l.
You can find me on the front line of the Culture War
With a Bible and a bottle, and a football metaphor
I’m so friggin’ Country
I say “yessir” and “thank you, ma’am”
I put gravy on my gravy
That’s how friggin’ Country I am
From the Stetson on my boot tips
To my pointy little head...
Uh...From my pointy little boot tips
To the Stetson on my head
I’m American as Daddy’s Chevrolet...which is French
And when I start a sentence
With the words, “Well, all I know...” I mean what I say
From the time I was a young’un I been hankerin’
To reenact the Civil War, and this time we win
I’m so friggin’ Country
I’m country-er than the country-est country ham
I use “country” as an adjective
That’s how friggin’ Country I am
I’m small town, down home, home grown, cornfed
Backwoods, one-horse, old school, one old home...schooled horse
And I give voice to the zeitgeist of a dwindling demographic in the twilight of its socio-economic dominance, increasingly insular, tacitly protectionist, with a disproportionate sense of entitlement and a vague, but desperate longing for simpler times which never really existed, a phenomenon Piaget referred to as “faux-stalgia” but which I like to call “The Mayberry Syndrome.”
I’m so friggin’ Country
Son of my mama and my Uncle Sam
I throw roadkill on the barbeque
That’s how friggin’ Country I am
