Timber, feel that pine drop low,
moonlight sparks on the sawdust floor;
Kê$hā growls like a rattlesnake drum,
Pitbull howls “?dale!”—the night’s still young.
Boots stomp, swamp shakes, banjo burns,
whiskey rain in a spinning world;
trees fall hard when the bass goes boom,
we rise up taller, let tomorrow loom.
Swing your axe, kiss my neck,
leave a trail of neon wreck;
if the sun tries to chase this flame,
we’ll chainsaw the horizon, timber again.