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 


{Chorus} 


Come away with me Lucille 

In my smoking, choking automobile