Back porch preacher preaching at me Acting like he wrote the golden rules
Shaking his fist and speeching at me Shouting from his soap box like a fool
Come Sunday morning he's lying in bed
With his eye all red, with the wine in his head Wishing he was dead when he oughta be
Heading for Sunday school
* Clean up your own backyard Oh don't you hand me none of your lines
Clean up your own backyard You tend to your business, I'll tend to mine
Drugstore cowboy criticizing Acting like he's better than you and me
Standing on the sidewalk supervising Telling everybody how they ought to be
Come closing time 'most every night He locks up tight and out go the lights
And he ducks out of sight and he cheats on his wife With his employee
( * )
Armchair quarterback's always moanin' Second guessing people all day long
Pushing, fooling and hanging on in Always messing where they don't belong
When you get right down to the nitty-gritty Isn't it a pity that in this big city
Not a one a'little bitty man'll admit He could have been a little bit wrong
( * )
