Hot steam rising from the door, by the tar road.
Crawdads kicking in the dirt.
Serious cleavage in pink motels.
(The) preacher's emptying his bucket.

[Chorus:] Forks in the road
Pock marks in starch-white shirts.(2x)

Carcass rotting in the yard, by the motel.
(The) Bayou's washed it on the shore.
Maggots turned up butterflies in the deep south.
Here I am running from the pulpett.

(Chorus repeated endlessly).