| You can tell the world you never was my girl, you can burn my clothes up when I'm gone. You can tell your friends just what a fool I've been, and laugh and joke about me on the phone. You can tell my arms go back into the farm. You can tell my feet to hit the floor. You can tell my lips to tell my finger tips, they won't be reaching out for you no more. But don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, I just don't think he'll understand. But if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, he might blow up and kill this man. |
You can tell your Ma, I moved to Arkansas. You can tell your dog to bite my leg. Or tell your brother, Cliff, whose fist can tell my lips, who never really like me anyway. Or tell your Aunt Louise, tell anything you please. Myself already knows I'm not OK. Or you can tell my eyes, to watch out for my mind. It might be walking out on me someday. But don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, I just don't think he'll understand. But if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, he might blow up and kill this man. Home |