Brain-dead redneck from Prospect, Oregon,
His incest gestates; of cretins, more he'll spawn.
They're all inbred there, and the town's whore's his mom.
Bangs mom, he's a country boy.

His sister is his wife, honeymoon on the farm,
Each night he snuck away 'cause the sows have more charm.
When he makes 'em squeal, sounds like a fire alarm,
Bangs hogs, he's a country boy.

Well he don't think there's life in roadkill on the griddle,
Got a cleft palate, when he tries to speak, just dribble.
Wife's butt-ugly; she and cur Silver he'll diddle.
Bangs dogs, he's a country boy.

Well, it's work he'll shun, 'cause he'd rather get to know
First cousin he'll fiddle, so he rosins up his bow.
The kid sinks it deep and he plays prizzicato.
Bangs on, on this country boy.

He'd lay Bossie Bovine all day if he could,
But he's porkin' the family, and they take his piddlin' wood.
He's a sibling-shankin' man, but as goats they ain't as good.
Bangs Bossie and kids enjoys.

Well he don't think there's life in roadkill on the griddle,
Got a cleft palate, but he tries to take a nibble,
Gets the mutt dicked, then he dribbles in the kibble.
Bangs dogs, he's a country boy

Well, he'll often trade his wife to a guy who's got some mules,
Their hinds are kinda high, so he's behind 'em on stools.
The spit begins to dribble, then there's rivulets of drool.
Bangs hoss kin, this country boy.

The dimwit's not drivin' when usin' gasoline,
He's drinkin' or sniffin' it; all that benzene
Is rotting what little brain he had in between
Blank otics of country boy.

Well his butt-ugly sis-wife had a figure like a fiddle,
Stuffed redneck palate, now a sixty-six-inch middle.
Wife's butt-ugly, but when Silver's gone he'll settle. . .
Skank dog, that's his sis enjoyed.

Well, he's fiddling with daddy, who to the bed is tied,
Then he says, "Pretend you're ma, and do like her: open wide,"
And just then in comes ma, and she joins 'em on the ride.
Bangs pop, mom, this country boy.

Their daddy, he was hung, but his bumpkin son was little,
A pumpkin-headed dunce with a maw that's gobbed with spittle
And spit isn't all he's got, 'cause he just wet his whistle.
Drank gobs of what bulls deploy.

Well, he's got an ugly life, with prospects slim to little,
A son from a shtup; too bad he didn't dribble
Down daddy's leg so grandma could drop and nibble
Rank gob that made country boy.