Interpret:

Elvis Presley

Album:

Elvis' Gold Records

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