Said Fuck It Lyrics By Upchurch
Aww they gonna be mad about this one boys
Oh well, it’ll be alright
Fuck award shows, fuck the radio
And the new up and comer and his female clothes
With his glitter on his face and his prewritten songs
He ain’t from ’round here and neither is his boss
Fuck the guy in the office with his Jerry Curl
And his hands super soft like a teenage girl
Fuck social media and them long hashtags
With your bitch made album cover lookin’ like a-
Yeah, I said the word fuck on the charts
Prolly breaking beta male achy breaky hearts
With the mocha lattes and sparkly blue scarfs
Sittin’ in the room tryna fucking talk like us
We don’t need
Another pretty boy singin’ pretty songs
What up Luke, you doin’ alright bro?
You want a beer?
No, okay well suit yourself
You act like you broke your heart or something
If country music was a rooster
You prolly wouldn’t know it don’t lay eggs
If country music was a set of game cock gaffs
You’d prolly get stabbed in the hand
If country music was baby chickens in the thicket
Would you have corn dust covered on your britches?
I am to country like rooster feed to a bucket
Just clucking telling y’all fuck it
Yeah, fuck it
So by now you probably figured it out
Mainstream pissed me off and made me have a dirty mouth
But on the flip side, here’s a little known fact
I was born in Music City, still get no slack
I got country songs tippin’ 100 million
Get played in every mud park across Dixie
Not to mention female singers want to come and frisk me
Especially when I’m stoned in my F-150
Ryan
Kane, what are ya doin’?
Tryna start a fire, it’s gettin’ chilly
Gettin’ chilly? It’s gettin’ dark, are you lost or something?
Yeah, I’ve been out here for hours
Where’d you come from?
I came from up yonder
No, no, no, you need to go that way
You need to get out of here dude
If they find out a country singer was lost in the woods, CMT gonna eat this up fuggin’
If country music was a rooster
You prolly wouldn’t know it don’t lay eggs
If country music was a set of game cock gaffs
You’d prolly get stabbed in the hand
If country music was baby chickens in the thicket
Would you have corn dust covered on your britches?
I am to country like rooster feed to a bucket
Just clucking telling y’all fuck it
This part of the song is called the bridge
And I’m about to burn it down
And make it aware to these sissy ass big wigs
To stop fucking up my hometown
And I don’t want to hear that we ain’t good enough
Or the radio ain’t got room
Bitch, I get the same spins on my Spotify list
As your newest and hottest do
‘Cause If country music was a rooster
I’d prolly be a big Cuban dong
If country music was a six cock derby in Kentucky
I’d be the last one standing tall
If country music was a walk string
I’d break loose and strut the yard
‘Cause we are to country like rooster feed to a bucket
And we like songs that say fuck it (Haha)
Yeah, fuck it, woo
