Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans,
way back up in the woods among the evergreens,
there stood a log cabin made of earth and wood,
where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode,
who never ever learned to read or write so well,
but he could play a guitar just like a ring in a bell.
Goode, Goode!
Goode, Johnny Goode, Goode!
Goode, Johnny Goode, Goode!
Goode, Johnny Goode, Goode!
Johnny B. Goode.
He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack,
posted beneath a tree by the railroad track.
All engineers would see him sitting in the shade,
strumming with the rhythm that the drivers made.
When people passing by,
they would stop and say,
oh my,
what that little country boy should play.
Goode, Johnny Goode, Goode!
Goode, Johnny Goode, Goode!
Goode, Johnny Goode, Goode!
Johnny B. Goode.
His
mother told him someday you will be a man
and you will be the leader of a big old
band.
Many people coming from miles around will
hear you play your music when the sun
go down.
Maybe someday your name will be in
light saying Johnny be good tonight.
Go go go Johnny go
go go go Johnny go go go go Johnny go
go go go Johnny go go Johnny be good.