Well you can call me chicken you can say I'm yella
But you never could call me the kind of a fella
Written up in the paper being left for dead
A big headline and all it said
He was a young and handsome kind of a tough
And he was fast, but he wasn’t fast enough

No it won't be me, in that paragraph
Won’t be me with that epitaph
I’ll be skipping by with a wink and a smile
And a mile away ‘fore I stop to laugh

The only thing on the lot that I coulda scored
It was a rusted out hulk of a flat-top Ford
Salesman said, this is a car you should own
Those dents will buff right out when you get it on home
Imagine driving this beauty all over town
Easy credit, low terms and no money down

No it won't be me drivin’ THAT down the road
Won't be the car that I can afford
I'll be on the street
Drivin’ on my feet
‘Fore you cheat me into takin’ that flat-top Ford

At the end of the bar in a “cashmore” sweater
Said she might like to get to know me better
Made it back to her place about half past nine
We had a lovely conversation, things were going just fine
Then I hear somebody poundin’ at her front door
Is someone in there w’choo, Eleanor

No it won’t be me that answers that knock
Won't be me that unlocks that lock
I'll be gone before
Your man’s through the door, and
Skedaddlatin’ halfway down the block (bye-bye)