He's a flatland farmer Who flat-picks an old guitar Yeah, he's a flatland farmer He flat-picks an old guitar He don't make no money But he can out-pick a Nashville star Yeah, the people come in pick-ups They're driving in from miles around Yeah, the people come in pick-ups They're driving in from miles around They just park in his front yard And they sit on his ground And they eat fried chicken To the flatland sound, eat a little Well, they call mighty Nashville Music City, USA They call god-all-mighty Nashville Music City, USA Ah but get out the city To where the farmers play You're into real music country Without them city ways Get with the flatland farmer Who flat-picks an old guitar Get with the flatland farmer Who flat-picks an old guitar And the closest you'll want To any music row Is a long dirt furrow Where the cotton grows, grow Get with the flatland farmer Who flat-picks an old guitar Get with the flatland farmer Who flat-picks an old guitar He don't make no money, aw I'll tell you that boy can out sing Out pick, out play, out drink, out pray And out lay any of them Nashville stars