state supreme I see the world through different skies Are you saying good bye Are you ready to fly Are you coming away Are you going to stay High to
head boys to push their flags into powdered soils and cry no second placers no smart looking geese in bonnets dance with pigs in high button trousers no milk pail for the farmer
Jesse James and his boys rode that Dodge City Trail, Held up the midnight Southern mail, And there never was a man with the law in his hand That could
farmers, local business men Congress folks from Austin, young boys looking for sin Now we used to get a lot of rough necks, when the oil boom was high
it Superstar honey, so mean and vicious Got a lot and comin, I'm so mean and vicious Bark bark farmer, this chicken layin platinum ex-farmer (preach!)
head D-Loc's got the bud that make your eyes turn red Its a 9.4 on a Richter scale I got the green farm buds and they ain't for sale, The shit we smoke
Is Mah Accomplice Ya Dig, A Black Activist Like Sonny Carson, Stripes Of A Sergeant(Salute Me), And Chicks, I Get Em High, Higher Than Turbulences, White
a quarter of some sheeeiit, I'm the Pookey of the backyard All colors and all types like a junkyard High young boy with high young ways 'Cuz I connect three blunts and be high
Da 5'9"] New money, quite powerful mic module Green ducats, black models, white bottles Packed house, you lookin at the wrong nigga Long digits, we can bet the farm who farm
and inclined to get lyrical Checkin' for residuals, rhymin' be the ritual Ill individual, bad habitat, watch my voice battle cats While I'm spittin' battle raps On the high
Now down the road just a mile or two Lives a little girl named Pearly Blue About so high and her hair is brown The Prettiest thing boys in this town
the bubble head boys To push their flags into powdered soils and cry No second placers No smart looking geese in bonnets Dance with pigs in high button trousers No milk pail for the farmer
I?m on a haystack kickin? back three bails high A flatbed stage and a full moon light Party on the farm all night long With the moonshine flowin' till
the bookkeeper, not for the banker The margin's thin on treatin' large animals unless it's a purebred or, more understandable, a racehorse of some kind You see son, city folks pay a high
rude in the place With a gun in my waist I just might pop out slugs With a straight arm Bullets stomp through your Phat Farm till the animals jump out
hills are very high And so is the hill of Howth sir But there's a hill much higher still Much higher than them both sir On top of this high hill
fight for the rights of the working man, the small farmer too Protect the proletariat from the bosses and their screws So hold on to your rifles, boys
