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 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