[Verse]
Well, here comes Johnny talking ‘bout using his wits
While the rest try to find out just who wrote all of his hits
And you can’t blame a man that secured his sins
In a hole that you made just for him
Run now, tell them, shake him till each row fits
Till he cut out his heart and finally has to admit
That nothing is sacred till it becomes print
In his own hand more than this
Behind those pages rages words so they may
Try to explain to a son who just can't understand
Why he'd rather sit down than make a stand
In an old roadhouse just a [?]
And how many [?] how they can
[?] when we can
[?] walk through the gates
Try to [?] is this the [?]