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, now I'm not a man to point or judge
To bear ill-will or hold a grudge
But I think it's time I said me a few choice words
About that demon, the automobile
The metal monster with the polyglass wheels
The end results of the dream of Henry Ford
Now, 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 outta gas in the pourin' rain
I'm changin' a flat in a hurricane
And I once spent three days lost on a cloverleaf

It's not just the smoke or the traffic jam
That makes me the bitter fool I am
But that four-wheeled buggy is a-dollarin' me to death
For gas and oil and fluids and grease
Wires and tires and anti-freeze
And then them accessories ...
Well, honey that's something else
You can get stereo tape and a color TV
Backseat bar and reclining seats
And just pay once a month, like you do your rent
Well, I figure it up and over a period of time
This four-thousand dollar car of mine
Cost fourteen-thousand dollars and 99 cents!

Well, now Lord, Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see
What your simple horse-less carriage has become
Well, it seems your contribution to man
To say the least, got a little outta hand ...
Well, Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?

Now the average American father and mother
Own one whole car and a half another
And I'll bet that "half a-car" is a trick to drive!
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, it's 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 of the world placed end to end
Would reach to the moon and back again
And there'd probably be some poor fool pull out to pass

Oh, how I yearn for the good ol' days
Without that carbon dioxide* haze
A-hangin' over that roar of the interstate
Well, if the Lord who made the moon and stars
Woulda meant for me and you to have cars
He'd a-seen that we was all born with a parkin' space!

Lord, Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see
What your simple horse-less carriage has become
This world was once a garden spot
But now it's one big parkin' lot
Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?

Come away with me, Lucille
In my smokin', chokin' automobile!

(*Feller wrote "monoxide," but Reed sings "dioxide.")