(words & music by b. strange - s. davis) 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
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
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
Clean up your own backyard Oh don't you hand me, don't you hand me none of your lines Clean up your own backyard You tend to your business, I'll tend to mine
Clean up your own backyard You tend to your business, I'll tend to mine
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