The bad thing about hav’n a good look’n girl is the upkeep.
Like keep’n ants off black molasses.
It was her idea to go danc’n tonight, but
when we walked in, I felt every eye in the place shoot towards her.
She don’t notice thangs like this, but I do.
See, I ain’t a jealous man, but I’ll be damned if
I let other dawgs piss on my tree.

Two minutes away to get brews and the dawgs start sniffing around.
Want’n a dance, a phone number, a kiss,
and any number of things I’ll whip ass over.
Shore’ nuff when I return some young pup is sitt’n in ma seat
trying to hang on her like a cheap coat.
She’s try’n to be as polite as a young Baptist lady in Barnwell county can be, but
Ole’ boy just don’t seem to be hear’n her right.
Ma voice seems to come in a little clearer.

Now I will admit, “What the hell do you think you’re doo’n sitting next to my girl?” is
A bit meaner than, “No thank-you. I’m here with my boyfriend,”, but
He seems to understand me a whole helluva lot better.
The problem is he’s got too much spring steel, rawhide, and liquid courage
In him to know when to go the hell on.
As he pops up and yells something smart about me with too much base in his voice,
I feel every eye in the place swing towards me and Ole’ Boy here.

By the time we’ve made it back to the truck,
I’ve got enough broken glass, splinters from a barstool, and common sense in me
To know when to tell her we can stay at home
and dance to the goddamn stereo next time.