Deep down in Louisiana, close to New Orleans,
Way back up in the woods, among the evergreens.
There stood a log cabin, made of earth and wood,
Where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode.
Who never ever learned to read or write so well.
But he could play the guitar just like a-ringing a bell.

Go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
Johnny B. Goode

He used to carry his guitar in a gunny sack,
Sit beneath the trees by the railroad track.
Oh, the engineers would see him sittin in the shade,
strumming with the rhythm that the drivers made
People passing by they would stop and say
Oh my, what that little country boy can play

Go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
Johnny B. Goode

His mother told him, someday, you will be a man,
and you will be the leader of a big old band.
Many people coming from miles around
to hear you play your music till the sun goes down.
Maybe someday, your name will be in lights
saying Johnny B. Goode tonight

Go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
go, go, go Johnny, go
Go, Johnny B. Goode