Karaoké Lord, Mr. Ford Jerry Reed

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 with 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, Mister 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, Mister Ford what have you done

Now the average American father and mother own one whole car and a 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, Mister 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, Mister Ford what have you done

Come away with me, Lucille in my smoking choking automobile