| Yeah, she pays no mind to methods you employ
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| She wants a big city man, not a country boy
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| Go get your long hair cut
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| Scrape the mud off your boots
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| Eh, wash the hell behind those ears
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| Buy yourself some tailored suits
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| Oh, Buttermilk Boy better gain some pounds
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| Before she lets her knickers down
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| She wants a musclely man all gristle and bone
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| Makes no difference how you strive
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| She couldn’t care if you were dead or alive
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| A burly, beefy, strong arm man
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| Is all she cares to meet
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| Before you ever heard the word guitar
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| Yes, your mother used to see her as a star
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| Yes, she spent her teens?
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| In chauffered limosines--
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| And I heard tell you can’t get insured
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| For a clapped out '45 drop head Ford
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| Oh, Buttermilk Boy better gain some pounds
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| Before she lets her knick, knick, knick, knickers down
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| She wants a musclely man all gristle and bone
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| She’ll tear you down like a steer comin' through
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| Like I said she ain’t no use to you
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| A lumpy hairy mundane brain
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| Is all she cares to make
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| So let me put you straight, yeah
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| Marry farm-yard Kate
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| Yep, she weighs two hundred pounds its said
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| Oh, she’ll keep you warm in bed
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| Oh, Buttermilk Boy, you better gain some pounds
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| Before she lets her knick, I say, knickers down
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| Well, a musclely man all gristle and bone
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| So you like to think you know where its about
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| But she’ll suck you in and then she’ll blow you out
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| Yeah, Kate will keep you satisfied
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| Until your dying day
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| Yeah, let me hear some of that strong-arm music |