words and music by Katherine Wheatley
There's a man with his sleeves rolled up
Leaning out of his pick-up truck
Looks like his smile is stuck
Keeps calling me "Baby"
This here is a real small town
He must not be from around
Oh my God he is muscle-bound
Keeps calling me "Baby"
I am sweet sixteen
I ain't never been
Nobody's beauty queen
He keeps calling me "Baby"
Lights me up a cigarette
Tells a joke that I don't get
Wants to know "Do I like him yet?"
Keeps calling me "Baby"
He sings and plays guitar
He's got a week down at Marty's Bar
Oh my god it's a rock star
Keeps calling me "Baby"
I pretend that I get his jokes
I pretend I know how to smoke
I pretend that my bike is broke
Cause he's calling me "Baby"
Long hair in a pick-up truck
Wants to know "Do I wanna puck?"
I say "Sir, you're all mixed up.
'Cause there ain't no girl's hockey teams in this town...
I'll ask my brother for you though.
He might wanna puck."