Well, if you're one of the millions who own one of them gas-drinking, piston-clanking, 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 Polyglas wheel
The end result of the 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-dollarin' me to death
For gas and oils and fluids and grease
And wires and tires and antifreeze
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, 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 drive, 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 poor fool who'd pull out to pass
Well, now, how I yearn for the good old days
Without that carbon dioxide haze
A-hanging over the roar of the interstate
Well, if the Lord that made the moon and the stars
Would have meant for me and you to have cars
He'd have seen that we was all born with a parking space
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?
Come away with me, Lucille
In my smoking, choking automobile
Ah yes, another centrist. That will surely work this time.