Oh. Excuse me. Didn’t notice you sittin’ out there
I’m quite a guitar picker, ain’t I? Hmm, that’s good. Sounds so sweet, like a peach tree full of chickadees
Now, now ladies, please don’t fight. Just wait ’til I’m finished playing here. There’s plenty of me to go around. And don’t listen too close to my sweet song. You might get knocked up
‘How does he do it?’ Well, I was born hands-first. I’ve got eight fingers on each hand
Just listen to that, hm? I’m so fast, cocaine sniffs me! They got the recording studio on an express train, so it can keep up with the notes
Right now, I’m tyin’ my shoelaces, got my arms around two gals on my lap, and I’m answеring fan mail while I’m playing here. What do you think of that?
Hello? Who’s this? New York City? Carnegie Hall? No thank you sir, don’t need the business
You see, I’m happy right here, on my bed, on the porch, in the holler playing for you nice folks out there. I don’t need to play for money anymore, I just do it for the love. And if any of you have a social function needing of an orchestration, I play snake-handlings, poultry disputes, barn-burnings, necktie parties, sheep-shearings, lake parties, shotgun divorces, anything!
To be a chicken farmer
It takes a lot of pluck
All day it’s buck-buck-bucking
But I can’t make a buck
I’m from Kentuck-tuck-tucky
Where women love to feed the chickens
Shoot me while I’m happy, honey pie
Good-bye
Find more lyrics at westlyrics.com
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