You people can talk about your cold-shell roadie mamas
Mama, your chin up about your house being brown
Well I got a woman way down in Mobile, Alabama
She’s the warmest thing in that town, doggone her skin
She ain’t got no Papa
Leave me alone
She ain’t got no big boy
Please take me home
This mama just got one object in view
And what she said to me, I know she’s bound to say to you
She’ll say, “Papa if you ain’t got matrimonial inclinations
Then keep your hands to yourself”
“Daddy, if you ain’t got no bungalow-made reservations
Son, don’t let your hands be felt”
Well, I’m this red hot Papa you heard so much talk about
But this is an asbestos woman who mortally put your fire out
Papa, you ain’t got no matrimonial inclinations
Please keep your hands to yourself
When I first met you, I had no shoes
But look at me now, I got these barefooted blues
Papa, you ain’t got no matrimonial intentions
Keep your hands to yourself
Papa, if you ain’t got matrimonial inclinations
Please keep your hands to yourself
Daddy, if you ain’t got no bungalow-made reservations
Son, don’t let your hands be felt
Well I’m this red hot Papa you heard so much talk about
But you’re an asbestos woman who mortally put my fire out
Papa, you ain’t got no matrimonial intentions
Oh Death, where is thy sting?