Deep down i Lou´siana, close to New Orleans,
´way up in the woods among the evergreens;
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 ringin´a bell.

Go! Go! Go Johnny Go! Go!
Go Johnny Go! Go!
Go Johnny Go! Go!
Go Johnny Go! Go!

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
stummin´ with the rythm that the drivers made.
The people passin´ by, they would stop and say
oh, my, but that little country boy could play.

Go! Go! .....

His mother told him : "Some day you will be a man
and you 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
a-sayin´ JOHNNY B. GOODE tonight.

" Go! Go! .....

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