Well, if you're one of the millions who own one of them gas-drinking, piston-clinking, air-polluting, smoke-belching, four-wheeled buggies from Detroit City, then pay attention. I'm about to sing your song son.
Well, I'm not a man appointed judge To bear ill-will and hold a grudge But I think it's time I said me a few choice words All about that demon automobile A metal box with the polyglass wheel The end result to a dream of Henry Ford Well I've got a car that's mine alone That me and the finance company own A ready-made pile of manufactured grief And if I ain't out of gas in the pouring rain I'm a-changin' a flat in a hurricane I once spent three days lost on a cloverleaf Well it ain't just the smoke and the traffic jam That makes me the bitter fool I am But this four-wheel buggy is A-dollaring me to death For gas and oils and fluids and grease And wires and tires and anti freeze And them accessories Well honey, that's something else Well you can get a stereo tape and a color TV Get a back-seat bar and reclining seats And just pay once a month, like you do your rent Well I figured it up and over a period of time This four thousand dollar car of mine Costs fourteen thousand dollars And ninety-nine cents, well now
[Chorus] Lord Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see What your simple horseless carriage has become Well it seems your contribution to man To say the least, got a little out of hand Well Lord Mr. Ford what have you done
Now the average American father and mother Own one whole car and half another And I bet that half a car is a Trick to buy, don't you But the thing that amazes me, I guess Is the way we measure a man's success By the kind of automobile he can afford to buy Well now, red light, green light, traffic cop Right turn, no turn, must turn, stop Get out the credit card honey, we're out of gas Well now, all the cars placed end to end Would reach to the moon and back again And there'd probably be some Fool pull out to pass Well now, how I yearn for the good old days Without that carbon monoxide haze A-hanging over the roar of the interstate Well if the Lord that made the moon and stars Would have meant for me and you to have cars He'd have seen that we was all born With a parking space
Come away with me Lucille In my smoking, choking automobile