Lord Mr. Ford

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 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-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 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 backseat 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 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 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 car's 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
 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