[Intro] (Fast, blazing chicken-pickin' Telecaster over a roaring 2-step train beat and rolling barrelhouse piano) (Spoken baritone chuckle) Listen up, y'all. A polite little nod at the airport don't buy a round. If the man wore combat boots, pull out your wallet... or drop your top. Let’s go! [Verse 1] Saw an old boy parked on the corner stool, Vietnam hat, breaking every barroom rule. Some cat in a polo walked up neat and tight, Said, “Thank you for your service,” and he stepped to the right. Didn't offer up a nickel, didn't buy a round, Just patted his shoulder and looked down at the ground. Well, words are cheap as water in a ditch, Time to flip the honky-tonk gratitude switch! [Pre-Chorus] (Snare drum builds rapidly, screaming pedal steel slide) Don't just hit him with a five-second speech, Put some cash or some skin within his reach! [Chorus] (Maximum explosive volume, roaring guitars, rowdy gang shout) Don’t just say thank you, buy the man a beer! Slide a double shot of bourbon till he grins ear-to-ear! Pick up the tab on the chicken-fried steak, Pay for every single biscuit that he wants to break! And if you really wanna honor what he gave for the flag, Show a little southern pride, let the good times brag— Girls, lift up that shirt, give that soldier a view, Now that’s what I call real American gratitude! (Gang shout: "Bottoms up, tops off!") [Verse 2] (Fast 2-step groove resumes, walking bassline) He spent six long winters in the mud and the sand, Holding down the perimeter in foreign land. He didn’t freeze his tail off in forty-pound gear Just to watch you drink a cocktail while he’s dying in here! Waitress brought a cheeseburger, told him, "Hold the check, Every dime in this diner’s coming straight from our deck. "Then Susie from the salon made a hell of a pass—She flashed him them titties and he almost dropped his glass! [Pre-Chorus] (Snare roll, heavy guitar chug) A bumper sticker doesn't mean a damn thing, Give him cold hard drinks and a honky-tonk fling! [Chorus] (Maximum explosive volume, roaring guitars, rowdy gang shout) Don’t just say thank you, buy the man a beer! Slide a double shot of bourbon till he grins ear-to-ear! Pick up the tab on the chicken-fried steak, Pay for every single biscuit that he wants to break! And if you really wanna honor what he gave for the flag, Show a little southern pride, let the good times brag— Girls, lift up that shirt, give the soldier a view, Now that’s what I call real American gratitude! [Guitar Solo] (Blazing fast, frantic Telecaster trade-offs with unhinged piano runs and pedal steel) [Bridge] (Halftime groove breakdown, heavy kick pulse, spoken baritone) Freedom ain’t free, brother. And a twenty-dollar draft tab shouldn't be either. (Chuckles) Hey darlin', he fought for that view... don't be shy now! (Full drum roll launches back into double-time!) [Chorus] (Full throttle, wall of sound, rowdy gang vocals) Don’t just say thank you, buy the man a beer! Slide a double shot of bourbon till he grins ear-to-ear! Pick up the tab on the chicken-fried steak, Pay for every single biscuit that he wants to break! And if you really wanna honor what he gave for the flag, Show a little southern pride, let the good times brag— Girls, lift up that shit, let them titties fly! Yeah, that’s what I call real American gratitude! [Outro] (Driving 2-step kicks into overdrive, shrieking Telecaster bends) Get the man a shot! Pick up the ticket! Let him feel the twins! (Big crashing finish on an E-major chord with clinking beer glasses, raucous cheering, and a barroom whistle)
