|
I'm a poor boy born in the rubble |
|
And some say my manners ain't the best |
|
And some of my friends, yeah, they've been in real trouble |
|
And some say I'm no better than the rest |
|
But tell your mama and your papa |
|
Sometimes good guys don't wear white, yeah |
|
Every day baby, I work hard |
|
And it's true at night, I spend a restless time |
|
But those rich kids and all that lazy money |
|
Can't hold a candle to mine |
|
So tell your mama and your papa |
|
Sometimes good guys don't wear white |
|
Good guys bad guys which is which |
|
The white collar worker or the digger in the ditch |
|
Hey, and who's to say who's the better man |
|
When I've always done the best I can |
|
How bad was his dirty mind |
|
All those messed up chicks of the changin' times |
|
White pills and easy livin' |
|
Can't replace the love I've given |
|
So tell your mama and your papa |
|
Sometimes good guys don't wear white |
|
{spoken} |
|
Ha, I mean to tell ya |
|
You better tell your mama and your papa somethin' |
|
I'll split off by myself with another chick yeah, Ah just a kick |
|
You think those guys in the white collars are better than I am baby |
|
Then flake off |
|
You don't dig this long hair, get yourself a crew-cut baby |
|
Yeah |
|
I mean what I said |
