You can tell the world
you never was my girl,
you can burn my clothes
up when I'm gone.
You can tell your friends
just what a fool I've been,
and laugh and joke
about me on the phone
You can tell my arms:
Go back into the farm!
You can tell my feet
to hit the floor.
You can tell my lips
to tell my fingertips,
they won't be reaching out
for you no more.
But don't tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
I just don't think he'd understand.
And if you tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
he might blow up and kill this man.
You can tell your Ma,
I moved to Arkansas,
you can tell your dog
to bite my leg.
Or tell your brother Cliff,
whose fist can tell my lips,
he never really liked me anyway.
Or tell your Aunt Louise,
tell anything you please,
myself already knows I'm not O.K.
Or you can tell my eyes
to watch out for my mind,
it might be walkin' out
on me one day.
But don't tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
I just don't think he'd understand.
And if you tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
he might blow up and kill this man.
But don't tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
I just don't think he'd understand.
But if you tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
he might blow up and kill this man.
