Correction Lyrics Clean Up Your Own Back Yard by O.C. Smith

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Lyrics

(Clean up your own backyard) do it, hey
(Don't you hand me none of your lines) right on
(Clean up your own backyard)

Back porch preacher preaching at me
Acting like he wrote the Golden Rule
Shaking his fist and speeching at me
Shouting from his soap box like a fool
But come Sunday morning he’s lying in bed
With his eyes all red from the wine in his head
Wishing he was dead when he ought to be
Heading for Sunday school, yeah

Drugstore cowboy criticizing
Acting like he's better than you and me
Standing on the sidewalk supеrvising
Telling everybody how things ought to bе
Oh, but come closing time 'most every night
He locks up tight and out go the lights
Then he ducks out of sight and cheats on his wife
With an employee, hey

Clean up your own backyard
Oh, don’t you hand me none of your lines
Clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, and I'll tend to mine
Mm, listen...

Armchair quarterback's always moaning
Second guessing people all day long
Pushing, pulling, hanging on in
Always messing where they don't belong
When you get right down to the real nitty-gritty
Isn't it a pity that in this big city
Not one little bitty man'll admit
He could have been a little bit wrong

Oh, so clean up your own backyard
Hey, don't you hand me none of your lines
Oh, clean up your own backyard, listen:
You tend to your business, and I'll tend to mine

Oh, clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, I’ll tend to mine
Lord, I don’t want you to hand me none of your lines
Oh, clean up your own backyard
You tend to your business, and I'll tend to mine...

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