Well, it's a Pontiac, it's a 63 Stratochief
With a three in the tree, and it belongs to me
My baby, her and me
We go driving down old Highway 17
She puts on the radio, rolls down the window
Lays her head back, it's a Pontiac
Ain't got no wild horses painted on the side
Any optics in the mirror are precisely their own size
She's got a chrome Indian in front of the door
Might be an Apache or an Arapaho
Or a Pontiac
Or a Pontiac
It wasn't until last night at 17th and 3rd
It all happened so fast, nobody's really sure
But somebody held the rifle, somebody held the sack
And as fast as they were there, well, they were gone just like that
In a Pontiac
In a Pontiac
Then it freezes boiling and the oil pressure's low
And the pedal's to the metal, it's as fast as it can go
And the stain on her shoulder is getting darker, you know
And the radio keeps blasting out the facts
It's a Pontiac
It's a Pontiac
It's a Pontiac
It's a Pontiac
It's a Pontiac
It's a Pontiac