Well, it's a Pontiac, it's a 63 StratochiefWith a three in the tree, and it belongs to meMy baby, her and meWe go driving down old Highway 17She puts on the radio, rolls down the windowLays her head back, it's a PontiacAin't got no wild horses painted on the sideAny optics in the mirror are precisely their own sizeShe's got a chrome Indian in front of the doorMight be an Apache or an ArapahoOr a PontiacOr a PontiacIt wasn't until last night at 17th and 3rdIt all happened so fast, nobody's really sureBut somebody held the rifle, somebody held the sackAnd as fast as they were there, well, they were gone just like thatIn a PontiacIn a PontiacThen it freezes boiling and the oil pressure's lowAnd the pedal's to the metal, it's as fast as it can goAnd the stain on her shoulder is getting darker, you knowAnd the radio keeps blasting out the factsIt's a PontiacIt's a PontiacIt's a PontiacIt's a PontiacIt's a PontiacIt's a Pontiac