By:		Peter and Lou Berryman	Back to Roth's Song Index
On:		Follow That Road

We're never ever bored when we're riding in the Ford
We've got a speculator on the dash.
It doesn't pay the bills or assist you up the hills
It isn't gonna save you if you crash.
But when you pass a dairy now and then
You find that you are wondering again
What's that little shack by the barn around the back?
You can turn the speculator up to 10.

Maybe it's a shed where the farmer keeps a bed
For the man who comes to help them with the cows
Maybe it's a shop with a grinder and a strop
For the day they have to sharpen up the plows.
A shanty for the plucking of a duck.
Where they turn the cattle into chuck.
Where they find the mule when it's time to go to school
And the farmer's having trouble with the truck.  (x 2)

Nothing really like a jalopy on the pike
With the winding of the window in the doors.
With the whining of the wheels and the radio spiels
And the clatter of the clutter on the floor.
Then you hear a chuckle in the hood
Something isn't working like it should.
We may have to walk but judging from the talk
The speculator's working pretty good.

Maybe it's a link from the pedal on the blink
Comin' off enough to wiggle and uh-clunk
Maybe its the choke or the heating-coil broke
Or someone's entertaining in the trunk
Maybe it's a carburetor fire
Burning insulation off a wire
I think a chunk of rust could'a twisted in a gust
And be rubbing on the rubber of the tire.  (x 2)

When you're on the Plains in the Colorado rains
Or you're driving to Bemidje in the snow.
When you're headed north from Chicago on the 4th
And a Winnebago's holding up the show.
Conversation's god-almighty dull
Absolutely nothing in the skull.
You could drive to the equator if you've got a speculator
And you turn it on whenever there's a lull.

I'zatta chip o' wood in the middle of the hood
or a chicken enchilada for an elf?
Maybe it's a gob from the chin of uncle Bob
Who is not a man to keep it to himself.
Maybe it's a serviette for birds
A glossary of itty-bitty words
Maybe it's a tuffet where a hurried little Muffet
Lost her whey when she was leaving with the curds.  (x 2)

When you're nearly hit by a yuppie little twit
With his god-forsaking noggin' on the phone.
Swervin' in your lane goin' 90 in the rain
In a cloud of amaretto and cologne.
You feel the anger in you start to work
Maybe now's the time to go berserk
Before you pop a vessel let the speculator wrestle
With another way of looking at the jerk.

Maybe he's a shrink with a patient on the brink
And he's rushing there while trying to talk him down.
Maybe he's aware there's a toxin in the air
And he's off to warn the people of the town
Someone in his family could be sick
His daughter hit his mother with a brick
His dog has got the rabies  or his wife is having babies
Though the odds are in your favor he's a prick.  (x 2)