In the tavern, fit to tie,
Sat a roughneck redneck getting very high.
He was high
On whiskey 12 years of age
And racial rage.
He’d spilled bourbon on his coat.
He was spitting bullets ‘bout November’s vote:
“How’d they vote,
Vote for that slick liar Obama,
A cousin to Osama…?

“We’re not safe anymore
While they run around. (While they run around.)
Terror pays!
He works for al-Jazeer!
He should wear a fez.
With their big Black Prez,
They’ll take over here!”

“In Iraq, now,” he slurred on,
“We were liberators, and we killed Saddam—
This beer’s warm!
Now take Barack O. Hussein—
—a pagan name!
Like wild children with their toys,
Blacks will hoot and holler for their Golden Boy.
They’ll destroy
Ev’rything! We’re gonna pay:
Taxed and spent till doomsday…

“They don’t serve anymore!
They just laze around. (They just laze around.)
Welfare pays!
They haven’t worked in years!
Gimme one more, Rex!
With their big Black Prez,
They’ll take over here!”

(instrumental break)

“I can’t stand anymore
How they’ve run aground (how they’re run aground)
U.S.A.!
And when I’ve downed this beer,
I’ll be punching next
‘Cause that big Black Prez
Will take over here…
Will take over here…

“Backlash, baby!”