| Song | Clean Up Your Own Backyard |
| Artist | Elvis Presley |
| Album | Almost in Love |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Lyrics:B.Strange/S.Davis Music: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 |
| Lyrics: B. Strange S. Davis Music: 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 nittygritty | |
| 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 |
| Lyrics: B. Strange S. Davis Music: 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 nittygritty | |
| 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 |