[Verse 1]
G D C C
Raise your hand if you like American bitches
G D
Locked in girl on girl kisses
C Am
Well, I do
G D C C
You're just mad you can't score American bitches
G D
So you're blowing up shit, which
C Am
Just goes to prove
C Am G D
That eighteen year old bombs are dynamite
C Am G D
Yes, eighteen year old bombs are dynamite
D
What kind of a man sits Indian style?
[Chorus]
G D C
Camping with your bros, as your playoff beard grows
Am
Ain't gonna get your wack ass laid
G D C
Camping with your bros, as your playoff beard grows
Am Em Em
Ain't gonna get your wack ass laid
[Verse 2]
Trust me holmes, you would kill for American bitches
And the freedom of tits if
You only knew, who-hoo
That eighteen year old bombs are dynamite
Yes, eighteen year old bombs are dynamite
(What kind of a man sits Indian style?)
[Chorus]
[Verse 3]
C
Come to Infidelphia
Am
And fall in love with the unholy
G D
My boy knows this stripper that looks just like Angelina Jolie
[Bridge]
C
Just
Am
Don't bring up
G
What that club
D
You belong to does...
D
Dungeons & Dragons
[Chorus]
[Outro]
G D C
Where I come from bras are booby traps
Am x4
And soft targets have a bikini wax
