Floorboard Blues - Live

Look under his floorboards, Mama,
 I don't trust his silly grin
 He's got a beat-up Rambler, Nebraska plates,
 and I ain't getting in
 I don't like the way his pinky ring
 picks up the dashboard light
 or his short little piggy fingers
 or the way his belt is cinched too tight
 Check under his floorboards, Mama,
 I don't like his suggestive tone
 The way his words drip from his mouth
 as he asks can I take you home?
 I don't care how many miles I got,
 I think I'd rather walk them alone
 than to sit in the back seat
 as his eyes in the mirror
 reduce me to flesh and bone
 Check under his floorboards, Mama,
 'cause that razor's not just a threat to me
 He'll be slicing tiny crescents from your heart,
 without laying a sweaty palm to your cheek
 Don't accuse me of running scared,
 listen to what I'm saying
 It's a fucked up ol' world, but this ol' girl
 Well, she ain't giving in