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No shoes, no shirt, no service
10
Artist:Lars-Toralf Storstrand
Duration:3:29
Tags:up tempo americana country with a humorous hillbilly twist acoustic guitars twangy telecaster licks upright bass brushed snare and light honky tonk piano banjo fills and a touch of dobro for flavor warm dusty roadside diner atmosphere storytelling vocals in the style of country,country rock meets roger miller playful self deprecating and expressive clear rhythmic phrasing toe tapping groove and a catchy sing along chorus slightly gritty but friendly bar band energy keep the arrangement lively rootsy and character driven
Vers 1 I entered the small and scrawny diner with my boots caked with dirt, Barwoman squinted towards me sayin’: “hey, Boy… where’s your shirt?” I said “Ma’am, it’s a long tale, but I swear it wasn’t planned,” “Long tale or not, boy — you ain’t eatin’ here — now go along.” [Chorus] It was the rules, I couldn’t argue: no shoes, no shirt, no service — They wouldn’t bend the rules just for me. Lookin’ like a wornout — barefoot, half‑dressed drifter Tryin’ to get some iced tea — or a six-pack. Vers 2 Fact is I lost my boots in the river, lost my shirt in a bet, Lost my pride somewhere 'round where the sun goes down. Now I’m standin’ here at the counter, belly-aching like a hungry dawg, But the waitress shakes her head again and pointed at the scraggly sign. [Chorus] It was the rules, I couldn’t argue: no shoes, no shirt, no service — Honey, she said — that’s the rule of the land. Guess I’ll wander on hungry and bare-backed, — Like a Bronco Mustang with a soulless twang! Vers 3 I strolled on further down the road to the gas mart, I was smellin’ like a week ago Clerk peered up and hollered: “Hey, there Boy, can’t come in here dressed like that!” I said “Please, I just need some jerky and a sixpack of that beer” ‘No shoes, no shirt, no service!’ — them’s the rules, boy, have some shame. [Chorus] It was the rules, for sure — and I turned my heels round Everyone was hollerin’ from ev-e-ry door. Guess I’ll keep on walkin’ down this highway Till I find some place with standards lower than here. [Banjo solo] [Coda, dejected speech] “Found a place that finally took me in ‘twas the friggin’ county jail.”