Look under his floorboards, Mama, I don't trust his silly grin He's got a beat-up Rambler, Nebraska plates, and I ain't getting in I don't like the way his pinky ring picks up the dashboard light or his short little piggy fingers or the way his belt is cinched too tight
Check under his floorboards, Mama, I don't like his suggestive tone The way his words drip from his mouth as he asks can I take you home? I don't care how many miles I got, I think I'd rather walk them alone than to sit in the back seat as his eyes in the mirror reduce me to flesh and bone
Check under his floorboards, Mama, 'cause that razor's not just a threat to me He'll be slicing tiny crescents from your heart, without laying a sweaty palm to your cheek Don't accuse me of running scared, listen to what I'm saying It's a fucked up ol' world, but this ol' girl Well, she ain't giving inTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
