Arlen - Hank Hill

Now everybody gather ‘round for the wisdom of Hank R. Hill,

This is King of the Hill,

King of propane and I meant it, my point intended is real,

Fix your lenses, forensics woulda told ya Hank had built it,

Pretend it's a hardware store and the masses upon us,

And I mastered being the master at sellin’ propane, honest!

 

And the chapter that read at 25 I’d be grillin’ outside,

Like 5 in the morning, with Bobby just ruining the vibe,

And if they take everything, well, I got…

 

Arlen, Arlen, ain't no town quite like mine.

 

Aye, Dale, what’s happenin’ with it, ya weirdo?

Still I’m at it, load the truck up, haul propane automatic,

Still I’m laughin’ at them critics talkin’, boy I hear ‘em gaggin’,

When I’m back in the back of my alley, crackin’ a six-pack,

With Boomhauer ramblin’ ‘bout somethin’ I can’t understand,

 

It’s the grillin’ cap’, and I’m captain at servin’ up steaks and slacks,

It’s a wrap when I’m done and I come a long way from a narrow urethra,

To a king-sized throne by the grill, son, I’m from…

 

Arlen, Arlen, ain't no town quite like mine.

 

So come and visit, the tires rollin’, John Redcorn patrollin’,

Won’t you spend a weekend with Bill Dauterive, man?

Khakis creasin’, propane heatin’, that’s the game plan,

Hank Hill Conan, man, where’s my dang mower at?

Hand on the tongs and swore that,

 

I do it big as Buck Strickland for them cookouts,

Kama Sutra? No sir, I’d rather sit in my lounger,

Sippin’ Alamo Beer, watchin’ the Cowboys play on a Sunday,

I don’t mess with charcoal, boy that stuff is a disgrace,

 

Tryin’ to stay grounded like four flats,

But I know that Bobby’s rap dreams will put me in relapse,

Dancin’ in my den, talkin’ ‘bout he wanna be Yeehaw,

Hop in the truck, boy we headin’ straight to the Megalo-Mart,

 

And that’s a given,

I pass the torch then pass the spatula, propane’s my decision,

I crash the mower then you report that you see me in F-150s,

I must report that we import the best damn grills in Texas,

You bought it, now talk about it while propane fills your brisket,

 

I blow up every time I load up a tank,

Depending on what you expectin’, it’s clean energy in the bank,

Perfected by a man who sells grills for a livin’,

 

Arlen, Arlen, ain't no town quite like mine.

 

So tell that charcoal user step aside,

Roll it up in a blunt—wait, what in the hell?

Boy, that ain’t right.

 

I did exactly what I wanted,

That’s why them Strickland checks fly in my direction,

You never questioned when I said I

Would be a propane mogul before I visit ol’ Buck in the sky,

Eazy and Aaliyah, if I see ya, we gon’ test drive,

A dang ol’ Lambo’ in Heaven, but for now, I’m on the front drive,

Riding back to my town ‘cause I’ll forever stand by…

 

Arlen, Arlen, ain't no town quite like mine.

 

Now we can all celebrate,

We can all appreciate a good steak cooked the Hank Hill way,

America needs more clean fuel and fewer gimmicks today,

Harsh realities we in made my propane translate,

To the tailgates, the backyard chefs, and the broke folks that pray,

For a well-done burger without lighter fluid in the taste,

 

So light that grill, crack that beer, ten pounds of brisket, yessir,

This was brought to you by Strickland,

Now every motherf—uh, every dang neighbor in here say:

 

"Look who's responsible

For takin’ propane international, I make ‘em holler!"

Ayo, Bobby, good-lookin’, son…

Ain't no town quite like mine, yup.