I'd rather be seven beers deep with a Coleman cooler
propping up my feet, my ass in a lawn chair
floating on a breeze in a SunTracker.
I'd rather be tucked in a pit blind somewhere
on a Mississippi-Louisiana state line
waiting on them green heads to do a fly-by,
lit full of tobacco.
When I hear you bitchin' me,
it makes me think of all the places I'd rather be.
I'd rather be strippin' off shingles
on a July roof down in Tishomingo,
workin' like a dog,
livin' in a single wide.
Yes, I would.
I'd rather be stuck at your mama's watchin'
midday reruns of her favorite dramas,
wearin' my pajamas neck deep in days of our lives.
When I hear you bitchin' me,
it makes me think of all the places I'd rather be.
Yeah, all
the places I'd rather be.
Oh,
let me hear it how I leave my clothes on the floor,
track
dirt through the door,
and don't bother cleaning up.
Let me hear it by the guy you wish I was.
When I hear you bitchin' me,
it makes me think of all the places I'd rather be.
When I hear you bitchin' me,
it makes me think of all the places I'd rather be.
There's a lot of places I'd rather be.