Poverty stricken but still I'm a-stickin' to the things I know to be facts
One day it's feathers and the next day chicken while I'm pickin' my yakety axe
Ev'rybody says that I never will get far, keepin' out of work by pickin' this guitar
Livin' on a shoe-string, puttin' off things like a shave and a hair cut
Money don't matter as long as I scatter a little bit of happiness around
If people keep a grinnin' I figure I'm a winnin' my good old yakety sound
City folks go around turnin' up their noses and countin' their greenbacks and smellin' their roses
But I wouldn't trade my yakety axe, even for a T-bone
I'm confessin' I never took a lesson, all my notes are a matter of guessin'
Hopin' they'll come out in some kinda of manner that'll make the yakety sound
So if you're in the mood and your feet start tappin'
And you feel laid back and your hands start clappin'
Then I'll have done what I wanted to from way back
You're diggin' my yakety axe
Now, a pick
Written by Boots Randolph and James Rich. Lyrics by Merle Travis.