| If you’re looking for trouble
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| You came to the right place
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| If you’re looking for trouble
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| Just look right in my face
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| I was born standing up And talking back
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| My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack
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| Because I’m evil, my middle name is misery
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| Well I’m evil, so don’t you mess around with me
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| I’ve never looked for trouble
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| But I’ve never ran
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| I don’t take no orders
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| From no kind of man
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| I’m only made out
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| Of flesh, blood and bone
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| But if you’re gonna start a rumble
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| Don’t you try it on alone
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| Because I’m evil, my middle name is misery
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| Well I’m evil, so don’t you mess around with me
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| I’m evil, evil, evil, as can be
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| I’m evil, evil, evil, as can be So don’t mess around don’t mess around don’t mess around with me
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| I’m evil, I’m evil, evil, evil
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| So don’t mess around, don’t mess around with me
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| I’m evil, I tell you I’m evil
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| So don’t mess around with me Yeah!
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| Well, I quit my job down at the car wash,
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| Left my mama a goodbye note,
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| By sundown I’d left Kingston,
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| With my guitar under my coat,
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| I hitchhiked all the way down to Memphis,
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| Got a room at the YMCA,
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| For the next three weeks I went huntin' them nights,
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| Just lookin' for a place to play,
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| Well, I thought my pickin' would set 'em on fire,
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| But nobody wanted to hire a guitar man.
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| Well, I nearly 'bout starved to death down in Memphis,
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| I run outta money and luck,
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| So I bought me a ride down to Macon, Georgia,
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| On a overloaded poultry truck,
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| I thumbed on down to Panama City,
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| Started pickin' out some o' them all night bars,
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| Hopin' I could make myself a dollar,
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| Makin' music on my guitar,
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| I got the same old story at them all my peers,
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| There ain’t no room around here for a guitar man
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| So I slept in the hobo jungles,
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| Roamed a thousand miles off track,
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| Till I found myself in Mobile Alabama,
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| At a club they call Big Jack’s,
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| A little four-piece band was jammin',
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| So I took my guitar and I sat in,
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| I showed 'em what a band would sound like,
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| With a swingin' little guitar man.
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| Show 'em, son
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| If you ever take a trip down to the ocean,
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| Find yourself down around Mobile,
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| Make it on out to a club called Jack’s,
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| If you got a little time to kill,
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| Just follow that crowd of people,
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| You’ll wind up out on his dance floor,
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| Diggin' the finest little five-piece group,
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| Up and down the Gulf of Mexico,
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| Guess who’s leadin' that five-piece band,
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| Well, wouldn’t ya know, it’s that swingin' little guitar man |