More songs by Luke Combs
Description
Percussion, Drums: Jerry Roe
Producer, Lead Vocalist, Associated Performer, Composer, Lyricist: Luke Combs
Lyricist, Electric Guitar, Background Vocal, Composer, Producer: Jonathan Singleton
Bass: Steve Mackey
Electric Guitar: Rob McNelley
Electric Guitar: Sol Philcox-Littlefield
Acoustic Guitar: Todd Lombardo
Organ, Piano: Dave Cohen
Percussion, Background Vocal, Additional Engineer, Mixing Engineer, Producer, Digital Editor: Chip Matthews
Composer, Lyricist: Randy Montana
Recording Engineer, Digital Editor: Steve Blackmon
Assistant Recording Engineer: Chris VanOverberghe
Digital Editor: Michael Proctor
Mastering Engineer: Benny Quinn
Production Manager: Scott Johnson
Production Manager: Rose Hutcheson
A& R Director: Taylor Lindsey
A& R Director: John Johnson
Lyrics and translation
Original
Dang,
I ain't ever putting WD-40 on this front porch chain.
I can't, but I can almost hear that paycheck dropping in the bank.
I don't know what's gonna happen tonight, but there's a good chance it's gonna sound like boots on the back porch stomping on the two-four, little Ben Longneck clang.
Tires on the dirt rock, Bubba shot the jukebox, bending them guitar strings.
Cold can banging and some old boys cracking on whatever's in the cooler light.
Sure sounds like my kind of Saturday night.
Hot damn, you ought to hear a tailgate dropping on that old Dodge Ram.
Or all my rowdy friends, standing around a bonfire drinking, singing Pick Up Memphis.
Howling like some Bluetick hounds. Man, I almost hear it now.
Boots on the back porch stomping on the two-four, little Ben Longneck clang.
Tires on the dirt rock, Bubba shot the jukebox, bending them guitar strings.
Cold can banging and some old boys cracking on whatever's in the cooler light.
Sure sounds like my kind of Saturday night.
Boots on the back porch stomping on the two-four, little Ben Longneck clang.
Tires on the dirt rock, Bubba shot the jukebox, bending them guitar strings.
Cold can banging and some old boys cracking on whatever's in the cooler light.
Sure sounds like my kind of Saturday night.
Sounds like my kind of Saturday night. Sounds like my kind of Saturday night.
English translation
Dang,
I ain't ever putting WD-40 on this front porch chain.
I can't, but I can almost hear that paycheck dropping in the bank.
I don't know what's gonna happen tonight, but there's a good chance it's gonna sound like boots on the back porch stomping on the two-four, little Ben Longneck clang.
Tires on the dirt rock, Bubba shot the jukebox, bending them guitar strings.
Cold can banging and some old boys cracking on whatever's in the cooler light.
Sure sounds like my kind of Saturday night.
Hot damn, you ought to hear a tailgate dropping on that old Dodge Ram.
Or all my rowdy friends, standing around a bonfire drinking, singing Pick Up Memphis.
Howling like some Bluetick hounds. Man, I almost hear it now.
Boots on the back porch stomping on the two-four, little Ben Longneck clang.
Tires on the dirt rock, Bubba shot the jukebox, bending them guitar strings.
Cold can banging and some old boys cracking on whatever's in the cooler light.
Sure sounds like my kind of Saturday night.
Boots on the back porch stomping on the two-four, little Ben Longneck clang.
Tires on the dirt rock, Bubba shot the jukebox, bending them guitar strings.
Cold can banging and some old boys cracking on whatever's in the cooler light.
Sure sounds like my kind of Saturday night.
Sounds like my kind of Saturday night. Sounds like my kind of Saturday night.