In "King Of The Hill," HARDY digs into a life of stubborn rural pride, refusing to trade trailer park chaos and back porch freedom for any city promise. The beer cans, stray dogs, and VHS hunting tapes aren't clutter; they're proof of belonging. That .38 kept close and the repeated vow to stay rooted in mud turn the song into a defiant claim of home, where the whole world already sits on the back porch.
King Of The Hill Lyrics by HARDY
Damn, these dumb, drunk trailer park boys
Throwing beer cans all in my ditch
Don’t know why the hell they don’t wait ’til they get home
Another dog climbing out of the holler
With a hunter’s orange collar ’round his old neck
I’ll keep him in the pen ’til they figure out one’s still gone
Natty Light, working on ’em day and night
VHS T.K. and Mike, Deer Huntin’ 3 on a rewind
Perked up, Lynyrd Skynyrd turned up
If you never heard of me, I’m
King of the hill
I ain’t ripping these roots from the mud, and I never will
Keep a .38 bellied
You can bet your bottom dollar bill, bill, bill, bill, bill
Put your bottom land on, we got shit to kill, kill, kill
King of the hill
King of the hill
Every Sunday stuck on the Panasonic
Yelling at my man, the body in the wall on turn three (Damn it, Bobby)
Need to smoke a little—, wee-ooh
Pass the fuck out with my gut out, fall asleep to
King of the Hill
I ain’t ripping these roots from the mud, and I never will
Keep a .38 bellied
You can bet your bottom dollar bill, bill, bill, bill, bill
Put your bottom land on, we got shit to kill, kill, kill
King of the hill
And I go fuck Atlanta, fuck L.A
Box my bones in the crimson clay
Fuck Seattle, fuck New York
I got the whole world sittin’ right here on the back porch
I ain’t ripping these roots from the mud and I never will
Keep that fuck around bellied
You can bet your bottom dollar bill, bill, bill, bill, bill
Put your bottom land on, we got shit to kill, kill, kill
King of the hill
King of the hill
