Red clay mud caked up on the door,
Twelve gauge buckshot rollin' in the floorboard.
Turkey feather flappin' up in the visor,
Every Friday night she's a dirt road rider.
You can tell a man by his truck,
F one fifty painted on the fender.
Gun rack rattling in the window,
You can tell a man by his truck.
It's got scratches and dents, just like him.
Come hell or high water gonna keep on rolling.
You can tell a man by his truck, yes uh.
Backwoods baby sittin' in the front,
She likes the way it rumbles and rides a little rough.
Hah, yeah she does.
Tearin' up a corn field, bustin' through a rut.
My baby's screamin', "faster," she can't get enough.
You can tell a man by his truck,
F one fifty painted on the fender.
Gun rack rattling in the window,
You can tell a man by his truck.
It's got scratches and dents, just like him.
Come hell or high water gonna keep on rolling.
You can tell a man by his truck, yes uh.
Plays horse, ball caps, sliding cross the dance floor,
Boot check in the back, parking up a storm.
You can tell a man by his truck,
F one fifty painted on the fender.
Gun rack rattling in the window,
You can tell a man by his truck.
It's got scratches and dents, just like him.
Come hell or high water gonna keep on rolling.
You can tell a man by his truck.
Oh man, you can tell a man by his truck.
