They say it’s your birthday
Well, it’s my birthday too, yeah
It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to
Cry if I want to, cry if I want to
You would cry too if it happened to you
No one understands the heartache
No one feels the pain
'Cos no one ever sees the tears
When you’re crying in the rain
Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Into this house we’re born
Into this world we’re thrown
I met my maker, I made him cry
And on my shoulder he asked me why
His people won’t fly through the storm
I said “Listen up man, they don’t even know you’re born”
Well I was born a coal miner’s daughter
In a cabin on a hill in Butcher Holler
There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood
Where lived a country boy named of Johnny B. Goode
Who never ever learned to read or write so well
But he could play the guitar like ringing a bell
Get it, get it, get it.
Gitarzan, he’s a gitar man
He’s all you can stand
Give him a hand, Gitarzan
Down by the river that flows by the coal yards
Stand wooden houses with shutters torn down.
There lives a girl everybody calls Patches.
Patches my darling of old Shantytown.
Above the door there burned a scarlet lamp
And late at night a hand would knock
And there would stand a stranger
Yes, I’m the son of Hickory Holler’s tramp…
Gypsys, tramps, and thieves
We’d hear it from the people of the town
They’d call us Gypsys, tramps, and thieves
But every night all the men would come around
And lay their money down
I go down to the pit with the stinking air,
The smell of the sweat and the death is there.
I dance for a dollar and I dance for a dime,
Till their eyes are begging and their pockets are mine.
I take a body and I name my fee,
I take their money and they take me.
If you feel that you see me
Not quite at my virginal best,
Cross my palm with a coin,
And I’ll willingly show you the rest!
If you see me comin’ better step aside
A lotta men didn’t, a lotta men died
One fist of iron, the other of steel
If the right one don’t getcha then the left one will
Somebody said he came from New Orleans
Where he got in a fight over a Cajun Queen
And a crashin’ blow from a huge right hand
Sent a Louisiana fellow to the Promised Land, Big John
Empty birdcage in her room
Curtains pulled against the moon
Follow her down to Louisiana
Hotel room bedside manner
God I’ve got to get back soon
Well, you get down the fiddle and you get down the bow
Kick off your shoes and you throw ‘em on the floor
Dance in the kitchen till the mornin’ light
Louisiana Saturday night
Well, I got me a fine wife, I got me old fiddle.
When the sun’s coming up, I got cakes on the griddle.
And life ain’t nothing but a funny, funny riddle, thank God I’m a country boy.
I guess you didn’t know it, but I’m a fiddle player, too
And if you’d care to take a dare I’ll make a bet with you
Now you play a pretty good fiddle, boy, but give the Devil his due
I’ll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul 'cause I think I’m better than you
You’re so vain
I’ll bet you think this song is about you
Don’t you? Don’t you?