A Quote by Agnetha Faltskog

I'm a country bumpkin. I'm not a showgirl. — © Agnetha Faltskog
I'm a country bumpkin. I'm not a showgirl.

Quote Topics

I was just a bumpkin. Just a country bumpkin. I had just come to New York from Virginia. Or was it Baltimore?
When I grew up in Pittsburgh in my parents' restaurant, I was almost like a country bumpkin.
My grandad was the most wonderful man. He was a bit like me. He was basically a country bumpkin but he did well; he became managing director of quite a successful company but all he really wanted to do was to come home, put his disgusting old trampy clothes on and go for walks across the country.
I live in the middle of nowhere. I'm a country bumpkin in Ireland, in Donegal, and to go from that to Toronto, huge city, massive buildings just stretching so tall.
I mean, voters had that kind of faith in Barack Obama and they had that kind of faith in Bill Clinton, but people having it in Donald Trump, since they think Trump is a bumpkin to begin with, that anybody who has blind faith in Trump's got to be an even bigger bumpkin.
I'm a showgirl, as you can tell. I'm ever ready.
I don't speak fluent bumpkin.
No town-bred dandy will compare with a country-bred one- I mean a downright bumpkin dandy- a fellow that, in the dog-days of summer, will mow his two acres in buckskin gloves for fear of tanning his hands.
If I hadn't decided to be a fashion designer, I would have loved to be a Broadway showgirl or a Rockette!
I'm a showgirl. After 20 years in show business, I've learned to roll with the punches.
I was always a bit of a showgirl; it was in my blood. I never thought I would have a career as a singer, though.
I like to say I'm geek-chic with a little bit of showgirl.I get asked it a lot, and it really does kind of sum it up.
I had my hustle. It was whatever I could do to not end up working in a factory. If I had to shake it like a showgirl, I was going to do it.
Earlier, there were only two hairstyles. If the hero had a fringe, he was village bumpkin. If he slicked his hair back, he was an urban sophisticate.
I was the token bumpkin. It became, 'Let's get that Clark guy. He's easy to get along with.'
I know the rules. I've been living here longer than you have." He cracks a smile then. He nudges me back. "Hardly." "Born and raised. You're a transplant." I nudge him again, a little harder, and he laughs and tries to catch hold of my arm. I squirm away, giggling, and he stretches out to tickle my stomach. "Country bumpkin!" I squeal, as he grabs out and wrestles me back onto the blanket, laughing. "City slicker," he says, rolling over on top of me, and then kisses me. Everything dissolves: heat, explosions of color, floating.
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