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 a few choice words
'Bout that demon, the automobile --
The metal monster with the polyglass wheels --
The end result of a dream of Henry Ford's.
Sure, I've got a car that's mine alone,
That me and the finance company own,
A ready-made pile of manufactured grief.
If I'm not out of gas in the pouring rain,
I'm changin' a flat in a hurricane,
And I once spent three days lost on a cloverleaf.
Well, it's not just the smoke or the traffic jam
That makes me the bitter fool I am,
But that four-wheel buggy's a-dollarin' me to death
For gas and oil and fluids and grease,
And wires and tires and anti-freeze,
And then them accessories, well that's somethin' else.
You can get stereo tape and color TV,
Back seat bar and reclining seats,
On top of those easy monthly payments.
I figure that over a period of time
This four-thousand-dollar car of mine
Cost seventeen thousand dollars and fifty cents.
Well, 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 out of hand.
Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?
Now, the average American father and mother
Own one whole car and half of another,
And I bet that half-a-car's a bitch to drive.
But the thing that amazes me, I guess,
Is the way we measure a man's success
By the kind of automobile that he can buy.
Well, it's red light, green light, traffic cop,
Right turn, no turn, must turn, stop.
Get out the credit card. It's time for gas.
All the cars of the world placed end to end
Would reach to the moon and back again,
And there'd probably be some fool pull out to pass.
Well, Lord, Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see
What your simple horseless carriage has become.
Oh, how I yearn for the good old days, without that carbon-monoxide haze
A-hangin' over that roar on the interstates!
Well, if the Lord that made the moon and stars
Had meant for me and you to have cars,
He'd have seen that we were born with a parking space.
Well, Lord, Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see
What your simple horseless carriage has become.
This world was once a garden spot
But now it's one big parking lot.
Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?
Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?
Come away with me, Lucille (sung)
In my smokin', chokin', automobile
To bear ill-will, or hold a grudge,
But I think it's time I said a few choice words
'Bout that demon, the automobile --
The metal monster with the polyglass wheels --
The end result of a dream of Henry Ford's.
Sure, I've got a car that's mine alone,
That me and the finance company own,
A ready-made pile of manufactured grief.
If I'm not out of gas in the pouring rain,
I'm changin' a flat in a hurricane,
And I once spent three days lost on a cloverleaf.
Well, it's not just the smoke or the traffic jam
That makes me the bitter fool I am,
But that four-wheel buggy's a-dollarin' me to death
For gas and oil and fluids and grease,
And wires and tires and anti-freeze,
And then them accessories, well that's somethin' else.
You can get stereo tape and color TV,
Back seat bar and reclining seats,
On top of those easy monthly payments.
I figure that over a period of time
This four-thousand-dollar car of mine
Cost seventeen thousand dollars and fifty cents.
Well, 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 out of hand.
Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?
Now, the average American father and mother
Own one whole car and half of another,
And I bet that half-a-car's a bitch to drive.
But the thing that amazes me, I guess,
Is the way we measure a man's success
By the kind of automobile that he can buy.
Well, it's red light, green light, traffic cop,
Right turn, no turn, must turn, stop.
Get out the credit card. It's time for gas.
All the cars of the world placed end to end
Would reach to the moon and back again,
And there'd probably be some fool pull out to pass.
Well, Lord, Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see
What your simple horseless carriage has become.
Oh, how I yearn for the good old days, without that carbon-monoxide haze
A-hangin' over that roar on the interstates!
Well, if the Lord that made the moon and stars
Had meant for me and you to have cars,
He'd have seen that we were born with a parking space.
Well, Lord, Mr. Ford, I just wish that you could see
What your simple horseless carriage has become.
This world was once a garden spot
But now it's one big parking lot.
Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?
Lord, Mr. Ford, what have you done?
Come away with me, Lucille (sung)
In my smokin', chokin', automobile
inviata da Alessandro - 22/4/2010 - 14:36
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Album “Dick Feller Wrote”
Also recorded by Jerry Reed and others.
Testo trovato su Mudcat Café
Ma dico, ma siamo tutti matti? direbbe il buon Ciampi…
Io che a Torino ci vivo e ci lavoro, e che ogni giorno rischio la vita in bici sulle sue strade intasate dal traffico, o rischio la salute a piedi per le sue strade ammorbate dai gas di scarico, o rischio la nevrosi tra le sue strade trasformate in una sorta di rodeo selvaggio di creature d’acciaio… io mi domando e dico: “Ma dove spacchio di cazzo di minchia ce le vogliono mettere tutte ‘ste auto? Mica per caso ‘nto culo?!?” Questa, cari Marchionne, Montezemolo, Elkann e tutti quelli della vostra risma di riccastri irresponsabili criminali, è una vera guerra che state facendo all’ambiente e all’umanità, solo un’altra faccia della Guerre de Cent mille Ans que les riches mènent contre les pauvres, come ben dice il nostro Marco Valdo M.I.. Una guerra peggiore e ancora più subdola delle guerre vere, anch’essa col suo bel corredo di menzogne (prima fra tutte la balla che oggi i motori a benzina e gasolio non inquinano…), di ricatti (siccome sei costretto a lavorare per vivere, allora fai quello che diciamo noi…), di violenza e di morte (i morti ammazzati sulle strade, i morti ammazzati in fabbrica, i morti lentamente ammazzati dai veleni respirati giorno dopo giorno, anno dopo anno…). E per la vostra sporca guerra avete a disposizione un esercito immenso di “caporali” al vostro servizio – nella politica, nel sindacato – e di poveri cristi che lavorano per voi con paghe di fame e che, quando escono dalle vostre fabbriche di morte, continuano a respirare - loro, le loro mogli e i loro figli - attaccati ai tubi di scarico, e nemmeno più pensano che sia possibile una vita diversa… Voi, cari Marchionne, Montezemolo, Elkann e tutti quelli della vostra risma, che avete il potere ed i denari e che potreste coraggiosamente scegliere di salvarla questa umanità derelitta, mentre invece la state spingendo nell’abisso con le vostre politiche industriali miopi e devastanti, unicamente guidate dal profitto, voi siete degli assassini di massa che andrebbero processati per genocidio e per crimini contro l’umanità. Così la penso.