Lyrics by Ronnie Riddle
Music by Marty Hill, Benny Huntt © 2009

Granddaddy was a [bad word] raiser first class.
fist-fightin’, bar-brawlin’ kicker of [bad word] 
Unwanted, half-breed, illegitimate son
Of a hard-drinkin’, rail road workin’ son of a gun
Who always stood his ground, and never backed down…

He was an old fashion [bad word] whoopin’ son of a [bad word] 
If you’re lookin’ for trouble, brother, you just [bad word] it rich!
Hair-triggered temper; no safety witch.
Just an old fashion [bad word] whoopin’…  Sumbitch

My daddy was a chip off the old block.
blue-collared, hard-nosed puncher of clock
From the rough side of town to the jungles of Nam
The son of a son of a street fightin’ man
Who always stood his ground, and never backed down…

He was an old fashion [bad word] whoopin’ son of a [bad word] 
If you’re lookin’ for trouble, brother, you just [bad word] it rich!
Hair-triggered temper; no safety witch.
Just an old fashion [bad word] whoopin’…  Sumbitch

The apple never falls that far from the tree.
Three generations of [bad word] before me. [bad word] deep when the soil is rich.
I’m the son of a son of a son of a sumbitch!

He was an old fashion [bad word] whoopin’ son of a [bad word] 
If you’re lookin’ for trouble, brother, you just [bad word] it rich!
Hair-triggered temper; no safety witch.
Just an old fashion [bad word] whoopin’…  Sumbitch