Flatland Hillbillies

We're flatland hillbillies, Irish Cajun Creole mix
My brothers on an off shore rig, my sister's on the pole at slicks
Mama takes in peoples washing, she was widowed by a pipeline man
We're flatland hillbillies, getting by on what we can

We're river rats and john boat shrimpers, trouble in our DNA
It wouldn't be the same Port Arthur if we got up and moved away
God forbid we hit the lotto, chances are we'd wind up shot
We're flatland hillbillies, getting by on what we've got

Flatland hillbillies heathen to the marrow bone
Working on your cars and drinking in your bars
And running every red-light home, yeah

If you've never ran a trot line, never skinned an eight point buck
Never had a squirrel-meat sandwich (covered up in gravy)
Then I guess you're just out of luck (and I don't mean maybe)
Living on the edge of nowhere (we ain't going nowhere)
Isn't for the feint of heart (oh no, we're not)
We're flatland hillbillies, waiting on the fire to start
Flatland hillbillies, another other breed apart