2 acessos
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