Wack Rattle Rap

Lyrics

It started with two dumbasses in ’92… Nobody knew what they were starting. By 1998, history was made. And by 2023… Well… We found another dumbass. WACK RATS! Back in ’92 two boys became friends, Never had a clue where the story would end, Hunting and fishing, raising some hell, Making bad choices and doing ’em well. Then came ’98 and that clubhouse room, Where the legend of the Wack Rats started to bloom, Two founding brothers with a friendship for life, Through hunting and drinking and girlfriends and wives. Years went by but the boys stayed tight, Still talking shit every Saturday night, Then Desert Dog joined that fucked-up crew, And somehow three idiots were worse than two. Jizzy J! FOUNDING NUMBER ONE! Nubz! FOUNDING NUMBER TWO! Desert Dog! IRON GRIPPER! Put ’em together— AND COMMON SENSE IS THROUGH! WE’RE THE WACK RATS! Birds, beer and bullshit! Shotguns loaded, Talking mad shit! Hunt all morning, Drink all night, Miss half the birds And swear we shot ’em right! From ’98 Till the day we die, Raise that beer And let those bird dogs fly! Fishing, hunting, Brothers for life— KEEP YOUR BARRELS HOT OR YOU’LL BECOME A TWAT! WACK RATS! Here comes Jizzy J with his shotgun proud, Talking like a professional way too loud, Says— “Boys, today I ain’t gonna miss!” BANG! Bird keeps flying. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, JIZ?!” He’s got an excuse before the shell hits dirt, Blames his gun, the wind, his boots and shirt, He tries damn hard, gotta give him that, But watching Jizzy hunt? THAT’S WHERE THE COMEDY’S AT! JIZZY J! Good friend! BAD DECISIONS! Founding member! QUESTIONABLE PRECISION! Bird flies left JIZZY SHOOTS RIGHT! Then tells everybody, “I THINK I HIT THAT!” BULLSHIT! Then here comes Nubz, two fingers short, Still bringing hell to every damn sport, Shotgun up when the birds come through, BANG! BANG! “JIZZY, THAT’S HOW YOU FUCKIN’ DO!” Beer in the cooler, shells in the vest, And if shit talking’s scored, Nubz thinks he’s the best, Hunt, fish, drink, repeat, Two fingers missing but he ain’t missing a Sun coming up over opening-day ground, Everybody freezes when we hear that sound, Someone starts screaming— “DOVIE! COME BACK!” “I JUST WANT A DOVE POPPER!” Bird banks left, Three guns rise— BANG! BANG! BANG! Nothing falls from the fucking sky. Silence… Then Nubz says: “Who shot?” Everybody: “JIZZY.” Desert Dog rolls in, Iron Gripper by name, Self-proclaimed legend of the hunting game, He’ll tell you stories like he never misses, Then burn three shells while the dove flies off in the distance. Birds, beer and bullshit, that’s his creed, Twisted Tea and trouble are all he needs, Shotgun shooting and raising hell, If confidence killed birds— HE’D HAVE A THOUSAND IN THE PAIL! WE’RE THE WACK RATS! Birds, beer and bullshit! Three grown men Full of bad decisions! Hunt all morning, Drink all night, Tell the same damn stories Like they happened last night! Jizzy’s missing! Desert’s bragging! Nubz is laughing! Cooler’s dragging! From ’98 Till the day we die— WACK RATS FOREVER! LET THOSE BIRD DOGS Tick… Tick… Tick… “Hey boys…” “What?” “What fucking time is it?” “…Two AM.” “Ain’t we hunting at five?” Silence. PSSSSHHHT! “Who just opened another beer?” NUBZ. THREE HOURS TILL FLY TIME! And we’re drunker than hell! Can’t find my boots, And Jizzy J just fell! THREE HOURS TILL FLY TIME! Should’ve gone to bed at ten, But Desert Dog yelled— “ONE MORE ROUND!” So we fucked up again! Coffee in the morning, Cold beer tonight, We’ll probably sober up Somewhere around first light! WACK RATS, BOYS—RAISE ’EM HIGH! THREE HOURS TILL FLY TIME! Fourteen alarms start screaming at four, Somebody’s passed out halfway through the door, Jizzy J wakes looking legally dead, Desert Dog’s hugging a trash can beside the bed. Nubz starts yelling— “GET YOUR ASSES UP!” Everybody’s searching for shells and stuff, “Where’s my license?” “Where’s my gun?” “Who drank all the beer?” “…Everyone.” Shotgun? CHECK! Shells? CHECK! Bird vest? CHECK! Hangover? FUCK YES! Coffee? CHECK! Bird dogs? CHECK! Common sense? NEVER FUCKING HAD IT! But somewhere between all the bullshit and beer, There’s a reason these idiots keep coming back every year, It ain’t really the birds hanging off of the vest, And nobody gives a damn who shoots the best. It’s the stories told around a fire at night, Laughing so hard that your damn ribs hurt, It’s brothers you chose, not brothers by blood, Standing beside you through the good and the mud. From young dumb kids back in ’92, To older dumb bastards with a hunting crew, Years keep moving but some things last— Cold beer, shotguns, And talking about the past. WE ARE THE WACK RATS! SINCE NINETEEN-NINETY-EIGHT! Always running early, Always leaving late! Birds in the morning, Beer at night, Three hours of sleep And somehow we’re alright! JIZZY J! Founding number one! NUBZ! Founding number two! DESERT DOG! Iron Gripper came through! We hunt! WE DRINK! We fish! WE LIE! And we’ll talk shit together TILL THE DAY WE DIE! So raise that beer,