I'm gonna move to the outskirts of town 
Where none of your friends are hanging around 
That's right, I'm gonna move to the other side of town 
Where none of your business is hanging around 

Woman, please let a poor man be. Let a poor man be 
Columbia, girl, please let a poor man be. Let a poor man 
be 

I'm gonna build a castle out of Goodyear tires, 
Cinderblock and busted doors; that's where I'll retire. 
Gonna dig a mote. Fill it up with ale. 
Not much of a defense, I know, but the supply never 
fails. 

When you come knocking all in tears wringing hands and 
genuflecting, 
You'll understand that I am a busy man and my subjects 
demand my attention. 
These walls don't build themselves and I am running out 
of time. 
So if you desire anything else, you had better get in 
line.