Let a Poor Man Be

I'm gonna move to the outskirts of town

Where none of your friends are hanging around

That's right, I'm gonna move to the other side of town

Where none of your business is hanging around

Woman, please let a poor man be. Let a poor man be

Columbia, girl, please let a poor man be. Let a poor man

be

I'm gonna build a castle out of Goodyear tires,

Cinderblock and busted doors; that's where I'll retire.

Gonna dig a mote. Fill it up with ale.

Not much of a defense, I know, but the supply never

fails.

When you come knocking all in tears wringing hands and

genuflecting,

You'll understand that I am a busy man and my subjects

demand my attention.

These walls don't build themselves and I am running out

of time.

So if you desire anything else, you had better get in

line.