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