Look under his floorboards, Mama   I don't trust his silly grin   He's got a beat up Rambler with Nebraska plates   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 the 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 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 on your cheek   Don't accuse me of running scared   But listen to what I'm saying   It's a fucked up old world but this ole girl   Well, she ain't giving in