I got 808 acres, bass in the pasture,
Cornfield kick drum, the cows move faster.
I trap in my tractor, stack in my shed,
Got a check in my pocket and a prayer in my head.
Got mud on my F-1s, chrome on my sins,
Heaven might wait, but the work won’t end.
I’m the proof that a plowboy can pen his fate,
Still down-to-earth, just at a different weight.

From the barn to the booth, it’s all the same,
Dirt in my blood and smoke in my veins.
Every mile marker got a beat behind it,
Every loss I took, I rhymed it.

On my 808 acres, we plant dreams and trap beats,
Grow gold where the red dirt sleeps.
Got my roots and my records in the same damn crate,
From the mud, I make 808s shake.
Yeah, from the mud, I make 808s shake.

Ain’t no label gon’ water me down,
I bloom in the drought, still hold my ground.
Grit in my grammar, truth in my tone,
A little bit rebel, a little bit homegrown.
She like the twang and the bassline pop,
Like the way the hi-hats kiss that drop.
Said she never met a man that could mix both sides
That’s mud in my soul and fire in my drive.

From the barn to the booth, it’s all the same,
Dirt in my blood and smoke in my veins.
Every mile marker got a beat behind it,
Every loss I took, I rhymed it.

On my 808 acres, we plant dreams and trap beats,
Grow gold where the red dirt sleeps.
Got my roots and my records in the same damn crate,
From the mud, I make 808s shake.
Yeah, from the mud, I make 808s shake.

Call it country, call it trap — either way it’s gospel,
Every kick drum’s a hallelujah hostile.
Out in the sticks with a platinum aim,
Soundtrack built from blood and grain.

On my 808 acres, we sow pain and bloom pride,
Bassline thunder and small-town skies.
Got my roots and my rhythm in the same damn faith,
From the mud, I make 808s shake.