I was talking to a crusty old drunk in Ft. Worth one night and I asked him what he did for a living. "I'm an oilfield worker," he replied, "but don't tell my mama, she thinks I play piano in a whorehouse." I knew there was a Brian Burns song in there somewhere. The truth about my mother is that she never failed to encourage and support my "music habit," and that's the one and only reason I stayed out of jail (well, most of the time).
CHORUS: Don't tell Mama I'm a guitar picker. She thinks I'm just in jail. I been dreaming up lines and ringing up rhymes And raising all kinds of hell. Break Mama's heart if she saw me singing With my hair in a ponytail, So don't tell Mama I'm a guitar picker. She thinks I'm just in jail.
I used to be a good ol' boy, A clean cut kid, Mama's pride and joy, Never stayed out late, never raised no kinda Cain. Then I bought me an old guitar And started out picking in a smoky bar. If Mama finds out I've gone this far, She'll be hanging her head in shame, so-- CHORUS
Mama loves her youngest son, But if she ever saw me on stage with Gary P. Nunn, She'd be plowing up my corn with a double shovel. But I love those neon lights, And those sexy, sultry Texas nights. If Mama finds out what I'm doing with my life, Good God, there's gonna be trouble, so-- CHORUS