Blue Collar, Redneck Greenbacks

 

I get paid like grandpa did; the handshake’s where the money’s hid.

A good week’s pay for a good week’s work ain’t funny.

It’s honest work and I work hard.  No need for a credit card.

Everything I got I bought with money.

 

Blue collar, redneck, greenback dollars

Keep me and my baby in the black.

Hey relax, I pay a little tax

on blue collar, redneck greenbacks.

 

Me and the IRS, we don’t see eye to eye I guess.

They try to stare me down, but I ain’t blinkin’.

Now and then I throw them a bone, but I keep all the meat at home.

They sniff around but my lean cuts ain’t stinkin’.

 

Cold, hard cash or ice-cold beer, I get from the same place here;

My refrigerator doubles as my ATM.

There’s no limit on withdrawals.  I got enough for all y’alls.

What’s mine is yours is all I’ve got to say to them.

 

My castle’s where I keep my gold.  My change is loose.  It ain’t rolled.

The sock drawer’s where I do most of my bankin’.

I got no cheques so they can’t bounce, no stocks, bonds, or offshore accounts,

just Lincoln, Hamilton, Jackson, Grant, and Franklin.

 

I don’t trust the banking man.  My beans are in a coffee can.

I don’t mind the grind.  The living’s finer.

The places where I recreate, I try not to complicate:

There’s a ballpark, there’s a bar, and there’s a diner.

 

 

©  Audsongs 2015

Petawawa Blues - The Kelly Song Collective
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