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, Ill 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, Ill 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, Ill tend to mine



Clean up your own backyard

You tend to your business, Ill tend to mine