Three vocalists perform a song about top-shelf whiskey and party culture, mixing celebratory bravado with underlying sadness. Speaker B raps about heartbreak and fast living with luxury cars, while Speaker C recalls wearing a Texas hat in Denver and cruising a Trans Am on a lonely November night.
Tiger shots, we call 'em bombshells. Drink the whiskey out the bottle from the top shelf. I do it myself.
Yeah, yeah, I don't wanna wait. Always feel this pain, my face is numb like Novocaine. It ain't been the same since the day that you left. It all changed. Uh, in the Rari and I'm switching lanes. Wanna fuck me for the fame and I'm smoking propane. But I never stay, always switching up my stays. Now I'm in my A, fill my cup up to the brim and then I take a taste. Tiger shots, we call 'em bombshells.
Drink the whiskey out the bottle from the top shelf. I do all my tiger shots, we call 'em bombshells. Bombshells, drink the whiskey out the bottle from the top shelf. I do it myself.
I got my Texas hat in Denver, hanging out the window of a Trans Am. It was a weekend of the bender. It got me sober from my vape pen. It was a lonely cold November. All the nights we spent together. So you can wear my sweater.
Keep me safe with Sega shots, we call them bombshells. Drink the whiskey out the bottle from the top shelf. I do all my Sega shots, we call them bombshells. Drink the whiskey out the bottle from the top shelf.
He Sold Pickle Shots Out Of His Trunk. Now He Runs The Co-Packer That Won't Bury You In MOQs.
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