[Intro]
Church
(Pooh, you the GOAT, boy)
Hah

[Verse]
I ain't got no beef on the mic, I already ate what's worth it
Then threw the rest out in the back, that's China sick, my lines COVID
Yeah boy, I'm the Tennessean, whip through the city in a European
No mask, so I know you see me makin' rap great for the Southern people
Churchman, every stage a steeple, got the juice like beetle, beetle
Big wingspan like a fuckin' eagle, would still murder beats if it was illegal
Y'all beach made, eh, look, a seagull
Contaminatе hip-hop waters, got pipes like BP biodiеsel
You ain't got a thinkin' brain, in most disses I don't gain
To you this is just a game, but I own like five arcades
Insert quarter then complain, can't level up, not your domain
You ain't slick, you hydroplane, stupidity keeps me entertained
You can pack men in a studio and still won't get a single gold
If all them got a problem with stickin' coke up their fuckin' nose
Yeah, damn dude that was dope
This next album goin' gold, sellin' ten tickets to a show
Mom and dad in the front row, bought the other eight at the front door
Numbers fall like a row of dominoes, if you see me you would prolly strike a pose
Then take me to court while wearin' a dress and MeToo me and my bankroll
I'm thirty years old with a new Lambo and I do not take no stank hoes
I'm Nashville-born, and it's always warm like a deep freeze, always stay froze
And you hide your face like a Taliban bitch or get beat with these sandals
And I'm sick and tired of hearin' hearsay of what who said when they were here there
Can't take an L from a hillbilly, 'cause when you think about it you get scared
I tell the radio to go fuck theirself, then they play my track in the mornin'
What I do made Bobby Bones tell the truth about number 1's and charting
97.9, nah 101.1 The Beat jam, Dolowite and Scooby, who's Niko Moon fam?
I don't know, I'm not a tourist, don't know his hit, ain't gonna learn it
Prolly somethin' 'bout big trucks, dust turnin', and logs burnin'
Don't forget the moonshine, 50 proof
Get drunk or die tryin', flipped on roof, hmm-hmm-hmm
Crackheaded wackjobs call me odd and always talk when I ain't around, fact
More spins than a merry-go-round that's been around since the '90s bitch
This chitter-chatter sayin' that I suck, I'm on your fuckin' land skinnin' all your bucks
So, when you're washed up, walkin' Music City, you can hit my brand new record label up