Beer Belly Boy
From the moment he turned adult legal,
Triple B been hot rodding to the liquor sto’e
Making them daily late night beer runs,
and popping them tops with his beefy guns
Liquid numbmification is his stupor education,
sober thinking everyday takes a vacant vacation
Guzzling and grunting,
brain cells mental growth stunting
Belching and barfing,
lager laced blue-in-the-face scarfing
Triple B don’t have a problem with none of that,
he’s a certified spud, who loves sucking down suds by the sack
His grandpa affectionately calls him Beer Belly Boy,
a Budweiser lunch box was his favorite childhood toy
He don’t mind people saying his six pack is a couple cans short,
as long as he delivers the moonshine on time to the rally point port
Triple B feels he’s living the life of a NASCAR rebel,
and his best friend Bo is a rowdy, hell-raising devil
Beer Belly Boy loves his favorite American girl,
dressed in her aluminum skirt and amber pearls
Beer Belly Boy, full of joy, gon crush kiss each empty can,
‘cause his gut feeling tells him this is the measure of a man
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