Down in the south, there’s a road.
A road haunted by racists of all ages.
A road filled with teeny-boppers for Christ’s nipples.
Yet, this road is saved from stereotyping obscurity,
SMS always helps out those in need.
Delivering pure, 100 watt, yelling with no purpose,
But to make you want to beat up whoever invented music.
A road haunted by racists of all ages.
A road filled with teeny-boppers for Christ’s nipples.
Yet, this road is saved from stereotyping obscurity,
SMS always helps out those in need.
Delivering pure, 100 watt, yelling with no purpose,
But to make you want to beat up whoever invented music.
Lyrics submitted by THECobra
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