[Verse 1: Southern-rock male lead, drawl over the stomp] Pruitt's on the TV in a suit that cost a truck Saying I'm a mudslinger and I'm running on my luck Got a picture of my pickup sunk down to the doors Saying "That's the kind of fella you want deciding on your roads?" Well I got forty acres where the creek comes over the bank Every Saturday in summer half the county's in the tank Five dollars at the gate, and every dollar, every cent Buys a hose for the volunteers, that's the only place it went [Chorus: Southern-rock male lead, full band] Call me a mudslinger, I'll plead guilty to that Thirty-five-inch tires and a sweat-stained hat I never said a dirty word about the other man I just sling it in the bog every Saturday I can [Verse 2: Southern-rock male lead, twin guitars answering] Pruitt shakes hands at the bank with a smile and a pen I'm stuck up to my axles with a hundred of my friends Grandmas in the bleachers with a cooler and a fan Preacher in a lifted truck he's been building since he ran Kids along the fence line getting splattered head to toe Every mama getting splattered, every one of 'em can vote I never said a word about the man up on the stage I just put it in the low gear and I let the engine rage [Bridge: Southern-rock male lead, wheel spin, the groove drags behind the beat like tires in mud, then grips] Spinning, spinning, going nowhere fast Mud on the windshield and the needle on the glass Rock it back and rock it forward, feel it start to bite Hold on to your ballots, boys, she's coming out tonight [Chorus: Southern-rock male lead, full band] Call me a mudslinger, I'll plead guilty to that Thirty-five-inch tires and a sweat-stained hat I never said a dirty word about the other man I just sling it in the bog every Saturday I can [Verse 3: Southern-rock male lead, slide guitar wide open] Tuesday at the firehouse they're lined up out the door Every boot is caked in red clay, tracking up the floor Pruitt's in his car with the windows rolled up tight Wondering how a mudslinger took the county overnight Got the count at midnight on a whiteboard by the bay Two to one, and Pruitt calls me up to say "Okay" First thing that I sign is a little single line Bog stays open Saturdays, and the hose is doing fine [Final Chorus: Southern-rock male lead, everybody stomping] Call me a mudslinger, I'll plead guilty to that Thirty-five-inch tires and a sweat-stained hat I never said a dirty word about the other man I just sling it in the bog every Saturday I can [End]
