Way down Lou-i-si-a-na close to New Or-leans, way back up in the woods a-mong the e-ver-greens. There stood a log ca-bin made of earth and wood, where lived a coun-try boy named John-ny B Good. He ne-ver e-ver learned to read and write so well, but he could play the gui-tar just like the rin-gin' a bell. Go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. John-ny B Good. He used to car-ry his gui-tar in a gun-ny sack and sit be-neath the trees by the rail-road track. Oh, en-gi-neers would see him sit-ting in the shade pla-ying to the rhy-thm that the dri -vers made. Pe-ople pas-sing by they would stop and say: "Oh, my how that lit-tle coun-try boy could play." Go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. Go, John-ny go, go. John-ny B Good. His ma-ma told him: "Some-day you will be a man, and you will be the lea-der of a big old band. Ma-ny peo-ple co-ming from miles a-round to hear you play your mu-sic when the sun go down. May-be some-day your name will be in lights sa-yin' John-ny B Good to-night." Go, go. Go, John-ny, go. Go, go, go, John-ny go. Oh, go, go, John-ny go. Oh, go, go, John-ny, go. Go. John-ny B Good.
