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