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