[Intro] (Frantic, high-octane chicken-pickin' Telecaster intro over a racing 2-step train beat and rolling barrelhouse piano) (Gritty spoken baritone over the rhythm) Two trips? We don't do two trips in this household. Fingers turn to purple... but we hold the line. Hit it! [Verse 1] (Fast 2-step groove, chugging electric rhythm, walking bassline) Plastic handles cutting deep right through my skin, Sixty pounds of Great Value hanging like original sin. Got the milk on my pinky, got the eggs in my palm, Trying to keep my breathing steady, trying to stay calm. Parked out in the driveway, rain starts pouring down, Longest twenty yards in this suburban town. My neighbor’s looking out his window, shaking his head— He knows I’d rather drop right here and be left for dead! [Pre-Chorus] (Snare drum builds rapidly, screaming pedal steel slide) Cut the circulation off, tear the damn meat! I’m crossing that asphalt on burning concrete! [Chorus] (Maximum explosive volume, roaring guitars, rowdy gang shout) It's sixty pounds of groceries! One trip or die! I got plastic loops wrapped tight around my eye! Don't offer me a second hand, don't open up that door, I’ll drag these frozen tater tots right across the floor! My knuckles are white, my circulation's gone, Fighting for my life on a suburban lawn! Yeah, make fun of the bags if you wanna be sly— It’s sixty pounds of groceries, one trip or die! [Verse 2] (Fast driving tempo resumes, twangy Telecaster fills) Dropped a jar of salsa right on my tactical boot, Didn't even flinch, just kept up the pursuit. The bread’s getting crushed by a gallon of juice, And the knot on bag number four is coming loose! My wife is standing by the threshold, holding the screen, Looking like she’s watching a dying combat scene. She’s reaching for the handle, I scream out, "Stand back! I didn't carry this far just to crack the pack!" [Pre-Chorus] (Snare roll, heavy guitar chug) The eggs might be scrambled and the chips turned to dust, But making it inside in one trip is a must! [Chorus] (Maximum explosive volume, roaring guitars, rowdy gang shout) It's sixty pounds of groceries! One trip or die! I got plastic loops wrapped tight around my eye! Don't offer me a second hand, don't open up that door, I’ll drag these frozen tater tots right across the floor! My knuckles are white, my circulation's gone, Fighting for my life on a suburban lawn! Yeah, make fun of the bags if you wanna be sly— It’s sixty pounds of groceries, one trip or die! [Guitar Solo] (Blazing fast, frantic Telecaster solo trading off with unhinged barrelhouse piano runs and shrieking pedal steel bends) [Bridge] (Halftime groove breakdown, heavy kick pulse, gritty spoken-baritone laugh) (Chuckles into the mic) Look at my hands... they're purple. I can't feel my fingers. (Guitar feedback rises) Did we get the almond milk? I don't know, I can't feel my fingers! (Full drum roll launches back into double-time!) [Chorus] (Full throttle, absolute wall of sound, shouting gang vocals) It's sixty pounds of groceries! One trip or die! I got plastic loops wrapped tight around my eye! Don't offer me a second hand, don't open up that door, I’ll drag these frozen tater tots right across the floor! My knuckles are white, my circulation's gone, Fighting for my life on a suburban lawn! Yeah, make fun of the bags if you wanna be sly— It’s sixty pounds of groceries, one trip or die! [Outro] (Driving 2-step kicks into overdrive, wild Telecaster bends) One trip! Drop the eggs! Shut the front door! (Big crashing finish on an E-major power chord, the sound of plastic bags ripping open, and a heavy front door slam)
