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Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans, |
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Way back up in the woods among the evergreens... |
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There stood a log cabin made of earth and wood, |
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Where lived a country boy name of Johnny B. Goode... |
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Who never ever learned to read or write so well, |
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But he could play the guitar like ringing a bell. |
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Go Go... Go Johnny Go... Go... Go Johnny Go |
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Go... Go Johnny Go Go... Go Johnny Go |
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Go... Johnny B. Goode |
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He use to carry his guitar in a gunny sack |
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Go sit beneath the trees by the railroad track. |
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Oh, the engineers used to see him sitting in the shade, |
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Strumming with the rhythm that the drivers made. |
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People passing by they would stop and say |
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Oh my but that little country boy could play |
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Go Go... Go Johnny Go... Go... Go Johnny Go |
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Go... Go Johnny Go Go... Go Johnny Go |
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Go... Johnny B. Goode |
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His mother told him someday you will be a man, |
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And you will be the leader of a big old band. |
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Many people coming from miles around |
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To hear you play your music when the sun go down |
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Maybe someday your name will be in lights |
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Saying Johnny B. Goode tonight. |
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Go Go... Go Johnny Go... |
