Turn it up son
Alright boys, this is her favorite song, you know that, right?
So if we play it good and loud she might get up and dance again
Aw she's pretty good now
Here she comes, here she comes
Left, left, left-right-left

Hustlers shootin' eight ball
Throwin' darts at the walls
Feeling damn near 10 feet tall
Here she comes Lord help us all
Old TW's girlfriend done slapped him out his chair
Poor old boy it ain't his fault it's so hard not to stare at that

Chorus:
Honky tonk badonkadonk
Keepin' perfect rhythm make you want to swing along
Got it goin' on like Donkey Kong
And ooo well shut my mouth, slap your grandma
There ought to be a law, get the sheriff on the phone
Lord have mercy how'd she even get them britches on
With that honky tonk badonkadonk, aw son

Now honey you can't blame her for what her mama gave her
It ain't right to hate her for working that moneymaker
Band shuts down at two but we're hanging out 'til three
We hate to see her go but love to watch her leave with that

Repeat Chorus
Oh that's what I'm talkin' 'bout right there

We don't care about the drinkin', barely listen to band
Our hands they start to shakin' when she gets the urge to dance
Drivin' everybody crazy you think you fell in love
Boys you better keep your distance, you can look but you can't touch

Repeat Chorus
That honky tonk badonkadonk
That's it right there boys
That's why we do what we do
It ain't for the money, it ain't for the glory
It ain't for the free whiskey
It's for the badonkadonk

Writer : JOHNSON, JAMEY/HOUSER, RANDY/DAVIDSON, DALLAS
Copyright : Lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, Words & Music Publishing, WINDSWEPT HOLDINGS LLC