Lyrics
Well if you're one of the millions who own one of them gas-drinkin'
Piston-clankin' air-pollutin' smoke-belchin' four-wheeled buggies
From Detroit City then pay attention, I'm about to sing your song son
Well now I'm not a man appointed judge
To bear ill will and to hold a grudge
But I think it's time I said me a few choice words
All about that demon the automobile the
Metal monster with the polyglass wheels
The end result of the dream of Henry Ford
Well now 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-changing 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-wheeled buggy is a dollar and 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 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
Cost 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'll bet that half a car's 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 an 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
There'd probably be some poor fool without the 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
