Kick drum thumpin’ like a heart on speed

Boots on the board and a barn-floor creed

Fiddle finds a fire in a Friday groove

We’re gonna talk about some folks that just won’t move (hey!)

Saw a boy on the couch at half-past noon

Blinds pulled tight, TV buzzin’ in the room

Mama workin’ doubles just to keep that place

He’s scrollin’ past chances like it’s all a race

Got a fridge full of food from her busted-back pay

Got his phone in his hand but he throws the day away

Says the world’s gone mean, says the world’s not fair

But the trash piles up while he warms that chair

Lazy, useless, ungrateful fools

Cussin’ out the farmer while they eat his food

They bite the hand that feeds ‘em, then curse the way it tastes

Lit the match, then they’re cryin’ ‘bout the flames they made

Singin’ whoa, whoa, whoa, you can’t fool

A backbone test, it’s a simple rule

Lazy, useless, ungrateful fools

Lit the match then complained about the flames they made (hey!)

Met a man on the street with a sign in his hand

Healthy as a horse, talkin’ ‘bout “no chance”

Jobs on the window of the store behind his back

But he’d rather sell pity than punch that clock track

Says this country’s cold, says this country’s done

While he drains that bottle ‘til the setting sun

But a diesel truck rolls with a driver dead tired

Haulin’ his comfort, keepin’ lights wired

They sit in the shade while the field hand sweats

Counting every favor like a stack of debts

Got a silver spoon, still they spit that shine

Then blame the cook when the gravy’s fine

Lazy, useless, ungrateful fools

Cussin’ out the farmer while they eat his food

They bite the hand that feeds ‘em, then curse the way it tastes

Lit the match, then they’re cryin’ ‘bout the flames they made

Singin’ whoa, whoa, whoa, same old tune

Howlin’ at the sun for the heat of noon

Lazy, useless, ungrateful fools

Lit the match then complained about the flames they made

There’s a flag on the porch they like to drag through mud

Talk big talk, but they’d never gave blood

For the neighbor next door or the kid down the street

Won’t stand for nothin’ but a front row seat

But the nurse pulls nights in a tired old wing

And the farmer bends low in the early spring

There’s a hand on a wrench, there’s a hand on a plow

Those are the hands keepin’ all this now

You don’t have to be rich to give a damn

Just one good promise and a calloused hand

You don’t have to shout to prove you care

Just show up early and leave some sweat there (yeah!)

I’ve seen a barroom hero with a barstool crown

Braggin’ ‘bout his wisdom while he tears folks down

Calls this place broken, calls this place worse

But he never lifts a finger, only lifts that curse

He’ll drink that whiskey from a local still

Ride a county road somebody paved uphill

Trash that town with his wasted breath

Then blame the ground for his own two steps

Well I’m tired of the talk and the crooked blame

Pointin’ at the mirror but they change the name

If the shoe fits tight and it hurts your pride

Maybe that’s a boot you oughta wear outside

Lazy, useless, ungrateful fools

Cussin’ out the farmer while they eat his food

They bite the hand that feeds ‘em, then curse the way it tastes

Lit the match, then they’re cryin’ ‘bout the flames they made

Singin’ whoa, whoa, whoa, same old tune

Howlin’ at the sun for the heat of noon

Lazy, useless, ungrateful fools

Lit the match then complained about the flames they made

Lit the match then complained about the flames they made

Yeah; they complained about the flames they made...

the flames they made...