| 'Bout ten years old, hide and seek
|
| I found me in the closet
|
| Ready or not I stumbled on
|
| And opened up that box of
|
| Yearbooks, letters, black and whites
|
| A hundred, maybe more
|
| Next thing I know my brothers and me
|
| Got 'em scattered on the floor (Yeah)
|
| There was one of her, flippin' the bird
|
| Sittin' on a Harley
|
| And a few with some hairy hippie dude
|
| Turns out his name was Charlie
|
| Her hair, her clothes, her drinkin' smokin'
|
| Had us boys confused
|
| I’ll never forget the day us nosey kids got introduced
|
| To Mama, 'fore she was Mama
|
| In a string bikini, in Tijuana
|
| Won’t admit she smoked marijuana
|
| But I saw Mama, 'fore she was Mama
|
| We put that box right where it was
|
| And never said a word
|
| But growin' up got hard just tryin'
|
| Not to picture her
|
| In anything but aprons, dresses
|
| Mini-vans and church
|
| Oh and Daddy would have whooped our butts
|
| For diggin' up that dirt
|
| On Mama, 'fore she was Mama
|
| In a string bikini, in Tijuana
|
| She won’t admit she smoked marijuana
|
| But I saw Mama, 'fore she was Mama
|
| We laugh and hang it over her head
|
| Right above her halo
|
| Her face turns red when we bring up
|
| That tie-dyed Winnebago
|
| She runs and hides and still denies
|
| That hip high rose tattoo
|
| She burned that box of forget-me-nots
|
| When she found out we knew
|
| About Mama, 'fore she was Mama
|
| In a string bikini, in Tijuana
|
| Won’t admit she smoked marijuana
|
| But that was Mama, 'fore she was Mama
|
| And there’s that one down in the Bahamas
|
| But that was Mama, 'fore she was Mama |