Deep down in Lou'siana, close to New Orleans, Way back up in the woods among the ever greens; There stood an old cabin made of earth and wood, Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode. Who`d never ever learned to read or write so well, But he could play a guitar just like aringin' a bell.
He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack, Go sit beneath the tree by the railroad track; Ol` engineer in the train sittin` in the shade, Strummin` with the rhythm that the drivers made The people passin` by they would stop and say. Oh my, but that little country boy could play.
His mother told him, "Someday yoi will be a man And yoi will be the leader of a big old band; Many people comin` from miles around, To hear you play your music till the sun goes down. Maybe some day your name'll be in lights Asayin' Johnny B. Goode tonight."