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Poverty stricken
But still I’m a-stickin’
To the things I know to be facts
One day it’s feathers
And the next day chicken
While I’m picking my yakety axe.

Everybody says that I never will get far,
Keeping out of work by picking this guitar
Livin’ on a shoe-string,
Putting off things like a shave and a hair cut.

Money don’t matter
As long as I scatter
A little bit of happiness around
If people keep a grinning
I figure I’m a winning
My good old yakety sound

City folks go around turnin’ up their noses and countin’
Their greenbacks and smellin’ their roses
But I wouldn’t trade my yakety axe,
Even for a T-bone

I’m confessin’
I never took a lesson,
All my notes are a matter of guessin’
Hoping they’ll come out in some kinda of manner
That’ll make the yakety sound.

So if you’re in the mood
And your feet start tapping
And you feel laid back
And your hands start clapping
Then I’ll have done
What I wanted to from way back
You’re diggin’ my yakety axe

Now, A Pick



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