(Words & music by 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