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 [bad word] 
 But I think it's time I said me a few choice words 
 All about that demon automobile 
 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 [bad word] own 
 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 

 [bad word] : 
 Lord Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see 
 What your simple horseless carriage has [bad word] 
 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 

 [bad word]  
 [bad word] away with me Lucille 
 In my smoking, choking automobile