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Usa A− / A+ para ajustar el tamañoClean Up Your Own Backyard
Back porch preacher preaching at meActing like he wrote the golden rulesShaking his fist and speeching at meShouting from his soap box like a foolCome Sunday morning he's lying in bedWith his eye all red, with the wine in his headWishing he was dead when he oughta beHeading for Sunday schoolClean up your own backyardOh don't you hand me none of your linesClean up your own backyardYou tend to your business, I’ll tend to mineDrugstore cowboy criticizingActing like he's better than you and meStanding on the sidewalk supervisingTelling everybody how they ought to beCome closing time 'most every nightHe locks up tight and out go the lightsAnd he ducks out of sight and he cheats on his wifeWith his employeeClean up your own backyardOh don't you hand me none of your linesClean up your own backyardYou tend to your business, I’ll tend to mineArmchair quarterback's always moanin'Second guessing people all day longPushing, fooling and hanging on inAlways messing where they don't belongWhen you get right down to the nitty-grittyIsn't it a pity that in this big cityNot a one a'little bitty man'll admitHe could have been a little bit wrongClean up your own backyardOh don't you hand me, don't you hand me none of your linesClean up your own backyardYou tend to your business, I’ll tend to mineClean up your own backyardYou tend to your business, I’ll tend to mine
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