Would you be a bro-country act
And give the finger to tradition?
You'd sing vapid songs and wear tight jeans
And make most poor decisions.

I would ne'er support a bro-country act
Though my girlfriend should drag me screaming
To go see Florida-Georgia Line,
Their chemical tans gleaming.

Lyrics rapped and drum machines
At country concerts make me scream
In great agony as blood flows out my ears
To mix with vomit.

Skip my hometown; don’t even pass through,
Or else I’ve no choice but tot’lly smash you.

Shelton says that my country sound’s
For old farts and jackasses.
No more should Bryan shake up his butt
‘Cos that’s NOT my kind of night!

Would that earring-clad Aldean
No more defended Bryan’s schemes
Or that “Bottoms Up” trash song that plays all night
On country radio.

Whither women, like Kellie Pickler?
It seems that frat boys rise up charts quicker.
Oh, blame Borchetta and all his scheming;
I hope that saving country ain’t dreaming,
Ain’t dreaming.