Floorboard Blues

Check under his floorboard, mama

I don't trust his silly grin

He's got a beat up rambler, Nebraska plates

I ain't gettin' in

I don't like the way his pinky ring

Picks up the dashboard light

Or his short little piggy fingers

Or the way his belt is cinched too tight

Check under his floorboard, mama

I don't like his suggestive tone

The way his words drip from his mouth

As he asks, "Can I take you home?"

I don't care how many miles I got

I think I'd rather walk them alone

Than to sit in the back seat

As his eyes in the mirror

Reduce me to flesh and bone

Check under his floorboard, mama

'Cause that razor's not just a threat to me

He'll be slicin' tiny crescents from your heart

Without layin' a sweaty palm on your cheek

Don't accuse me of runnin' scared

Listen to what I'm sayin'

It's a fucked up ol' world but this ol' girl

Well, she ain't givin' in