Look under his floorboards, Mama,
I don't trust his silly grin.
He's got a beat-up Rambler, Nebraska plates,
and I ain't getting in.
I don't like the way his pinky ring
picks up the dashboard light
or his short little piggy fingers
or the way his belt is cinched too tight.
Check under his floorboards, Mama,
I don't like his suggestive tone.
The way his words drip from his mouth
as he asks can I take you home?
I don't care how many miles I got,
I think I'd rather walk them alone
than to sit in the back seat
as his eyes in the mirror
reduce me to flesh and bone.
Check under his floorboards, Mama,
'cause that razor's not just a threat to me.
He'll be slicing tiny crescents from your heart,
without laying a sweaty palm to your cheek.
Don't accuse me of running scared,
listen to what I'm saying.
It's a fucked up ol' world, but this ol' girl
Well, she ain't giving in.
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