Mom’s Whiskey out now, this a shameless plug
On lockdown, but we still don’t let our vain-ness budge
Say we do it for our own votes when we go postin
But how many barriers around your soul do you gotta build before you promotin?
I try to slide with integrity, that’s a pro’s motion
And Trump sayin “2 weeks, everything closed open”
If that applied to his eyes, soul, and mind, maybe shit wouldn’t seem so hopeless
Find solace in the love of my woman
Feel psychotic from the shrugs that keep puttin me near the edge
I need answers
And they ain't at the back of the book
I mean they are, but only if you read the whole thing, feel me?
Shit, and stomachin that novel?
We’d rather feel crummy with a bottle
Feel the rumbling in the throttle, it’s the prodder pokin at us to move
But the reality might just be as bad as the news