The Bus Won’t Stop

Lyrics

THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP Winchester Quarterfinal Anthem [Spoken Intro — low, cinematic] September tenth. Eleven in the morning. Lone Tree Golf Course. Quarterfinals. Winchester versus Antioch. They said we’d never make it out the first round. Ever… ever… my ever-ever. But look behind you, motherfucker— That bus is still rolling. [Verse 1 — Captain Negotiations] Captain negotiations started early today, Antioch came talking like they run the whole game. Forward tees in the back, different tees in the middle, Tips for the top—man, what kind of fucking riddle? JD leaned back, said, “Hold the fuck up, I gotta call Bryce before we tee this bitch up. Gotta call my boy Leon down at the NCGA, ’Cause we ain’t getting fucked by some rule you made today.” Whatever Bryce says—that’s the law of the land, We’ll beat you from the tips with a wedge in our hand. Move the tees, change the groups, give us every damn shot— It don’t fucking matter… THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! [Hook — huge gang vocals] THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! Through the rain, through the mud, all the way to the top! WINCHESTER DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! Every fairway, every green—give ’em everything we got! QUARTERFINALS! ANTIOCH! LONE TREE! SEPTEMBER TENTH! ELEVEN A.M.! We didn’t fight our way out just to die in the lot— KEEP THAT BITCH ROLLING! THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! [Verse 2 — The Peat Bogs] Back at Winchester, shit is looking obscene, You need a fucking canoe just to cross these greens. Softer than a poolside, deeper than a bog, Every ball hitting earth disappears in the fog. So at our fucking house, let me make this clear: LIFT! CLEAN! PLACE! From the front to the rear! Put your hand on your ball, clean that dirty bitch off, Set it down, take your stance—then go bury that shot. No excuses, no crying, no “look what I got,” Keep your head in the match— THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! [Hook] THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! Through the rain, through the mud, all the way to the top! WINCHESTER DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! Every fairway, every green—give ’em everything we got! QUARTERFINALS! ANTIOCH! LONE TREE! SEPTEMBER TENTH! ELEVEN A.M.! We didn’t fight our way out just to die in the lot— KEEP THAT BITCH ROLLING! THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! [Verse 3 — Team A, Team B] Then Captain Antioch said, “Here’s the deal: I’m Group Four, but at home is the only way I’ll play for real.” JD smiled like a man with an ace up his sleeve: “Funny—I’m Group One, and home is the only place for me.” “So how about a switch? Let’s make it clean: I’ll take Team A, motherfucker—you take Team B. Let Bryce give the word, put the matchup on track— Then bring your best four, ’cause we’re sending them back!” If Bryce approves it, then the deal is attached— WE GOT OURSELVES A FUCKING MATCH, BIATCH! [Breakdown — slow and heavy] For years, that first round was the end of the road. Every damn season—same unbearable load. But not this year. This year, Winchester kicked down the door. This year, the boys came back wanting more. We didn’t finally escape that motherfucking spot Just to pull to the curb… And park in the lot. [Final Verse — Anthem] So load up the sticks and tighten the straps, Bring the killers, the grinders, the dogs in the back. Every drive with a purpose, every putt with some heart, Antioch better understand what’s about to start. We are Winchester built, we are battle-tested, Disrespected for years—now we’re fully invested. They can change every tee, every rule, every plot, But there’s one damn thing they can’t change or stop: You can hear that diesel roaring when we pull on the block— You can feel Lone Tree shaking every time that bass knocks. We’ve got Poppy Hills waiting and a championship shot— WINCHESTER DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! [Final Hook — entire team screaming] THE BUS DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! WINCHESTER DOESN’T FUCKING STOP! QUARTERFINALS! ANTIOCH! LONE TREE! SEPTEMBER TENTH! ELEVEN A.M.! We didn’t break that curse just to lose what we got— We didn’t come this far just to park in the lot! Put your foot on the gas! Give it everything you got! KEEP THAT BITCH ROLLING! POPPY HILLS OR BUST! THE BUS… DOESN’T… FUCKING… STOP!