44's a BMW; 66's a Yamaha,
44's just like mother; 66 owns Omaha.
What a piston; what a bore,
66's a long old jet plane, goin' to a folk festival,
44's a hot jazz player, yeah; and his belly's never full.
You got to push what you can't pull,
66 is modern poetry; 44 is modern art,
66 ain't got no mystery; 44 ain't got no heart.
Flick your Bic at the right door,
66's a brand new baby bouncin' on his grandma's knee,
44's a long old coffin, open arms for you and me.
Say goodbye and close the door,
66 is Waylon Jennings, and he can't find his cologne,
44 is Nelson Eddy, and he's crying on the telephone.
Outlaws don't dig to be poor, no,
66 is just a number; 44 is just a gig,
66, apprentice plumber; 44 still wants to make it big.
Add 'em up, you get some more,
