Late last night I caught the second set of old Jack Reno down at the Black Hat Saloon. Jack's the kind of singing cowboy who can surprise you with a new song or two from time to time and last night was no exception. It seems that even though Reno hasn't bought a new car in decades (He says he's waiting for his '58 Chevy pick-up to rust away.), he hasn't been entirely out to lunch when it comes to the price of gas and the nature of new cars on offer. "Everybody's bitching about the cost of gas and yet they still got money," he says. "Seems to me that even as expensive as it is, its still cheap when you think it is the price of freedom. Besides, we got more uses for our big cars, you take that Escalade their making, than just driving to the 7-11 for a quart of milk and some chewing tobacco. That's why I wrote this song...."
There's these sleazy, mullah fellows
Want to rearrange my head.
Want to pick my pocket.
Want to slip into my bed.
Well, they better watch their moves,
Cause I'm getting in the grooves,
And unless they want real action
They'd better just get back,
Or they'll feel the positraction
Of my Atomic Cadillac.
Chorus
It gets three miles to the gallon.
It's hand-made by General Motors.
It's got a Winchester Repeater,
And seven polychromed rotors.
It's got five-wheel drive in naugahyde.
It cruises below the street.
It's got solid-state steering.
Man, I drive it with my feet.
It's amphibious, subacqueous,
It's sealed up for outer space.
It's the meanest motor-scooter in the atomic arms race.
Who are these guys who're cracking wise
And showing no respect?
A bunch of jerk-off turkeys
Who're gonna get it in the neck.
They think they'll make me quiver;
Make me stand up and deliver,
But they're rousting the wrong mob
With they're heads stuck in a sack,
Cause I've got a secret weapon
In my Atomic Cadillac.
[Chorus]
Ain't no latter-day punk Arafat
Gonna tell me where it's at.
These guys got all the styles
Of the pimps beat out by miles,
And just because they got the pump
They try and tell me when to jump,
But when they mess with Uncle Sam,
Man, they'd better start to pack
And take it on the lam,
Cause I'm about to cruise them
In my Atomic Cadillac.
[Chorus]
So they better watch their act
Or I'll give 'em cause to grieve.
I'm holding all the cards
In my hand and up my sleeve.
Next deal they're gonna holler
For their fooling with the dollar,
Cause I'm calling, I ain't bluffing.
I'm hot for an attack.
I'm diving from the sun at dawn
In my Atomic Cadillac!
It gets three miles to the gallon.
It's hand-made by General Motors.
It's got a Winchester Repeater,
And seven polychromed rotors.
It sports the finest camel saddle
Designed by General Rommel,
Rides on sixteen slicks by Goodyear,
Has a solid plastic pommel.
Air-dropped on any desert
It's computer sniffs out crude.
It'll keep the Ayatollahs blushing.
It's pure power in the nude.
It's the acme of technology.
It really sets the pace.
It's the curvy, MIRVy sweetheart
Of the Atomic Arms Race!
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