| Mama said, you lazy boy |
| You better get yourself a job |
| You can’t go on living like this |
| You know you upset your pa |
| And can’t you hear how the neighbors talk |
| You’re making me the laughing stock for blocks |
| Playing on your guitar (you foolish kid) |
| All you want to do is lay around |
| And listen to the pocket radio |
| Or wander over to the Jennings house |
| And play so loud they say you shake the floor |
| And every night you’re out till 4 or 5 |
| You’re bound to drive me slowly out of my mind |
| From playing on that guitar (it'll kill ya son) |
| But papa works from dawn to dusk |
| And every night his back aches worse |
| While mama takes in washing too |
| And most of what she makes goes to the church |
| And if I ask them why they work that way |
| They look at me as if I’ve gone insane |
| From playing on the guitar (it'll turn your fingers green) |
| If I put fourteen new albums out |
| And say six of 'em made the charts |
| My mom would call me on Sunday night |
| To ask me if I finally got a job |
| And where did she go wrong I’ve hurt her so |
| Then she’ll pray to God to save me from my fate |
| Of playing on the guitar (it's a foolish thing) |
| I guess they feel a man should work himself |
| Tell he drops in a broken heap |
| And for his life work he gets a watch |
| And a milky handshake from Mr. Cheap |
| A song in church on Sunday’s fine |
| But never lose your head and waste your life |
| By playing on that guitar |
| (Ah rock me now, and hit a lick for me boys) |