She's ponytailed and she's halter toped,
Her bumper sticker says I hate hip-hop,
With a southern drawl she says howdy ya'll,
And her hands aint afraid of dirt.
He's proud of his old truck,
He spray painted over dents and rust,
The motors smokes, its got four bald tires,
but the radio works.
Raised on the good book and our country songs,
ridin' down back roads singing along.
So blame me, for the way they are,
their love of the fiddle and the steel guitar,
blame me for their cowboy hats, roper boots, wrangler jeans, and rifle racks.
If you wanna point a finger at somebody for the way they believe,
blame me.
They were kids when Hag and me came to town,
all eyes and ears, look at 'em now,
center stage on the Grand 'Ol Opry on a Saturday night.
We sang of fishing and the lord above,
falling in and out of love,
To Aunt Bea and Uncle Sam and that American pie.
From big cities to the little towns,
to hardcore country inside and out.
Repeat Chrous x 2
Blame me
Blame me, yeah...
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