By the diamond in the lane there's a crimson red stain,
Marks the spot where a poor soul fell,
A handiwork of the devil, and it's just one of several tombstones on the freeway through hell.

Oh, cowboys with engines strike fear in their minions,
No, they'll stop at nothing to protect their dominions,
With the bullets to back up outrageous opinions,
It's best that you run, son, from cowboys with engines.

No, don't lift a finger,
Insult a gun-slinger, and he'll show you exactly who's boss,
Say a prayer for the old folks, tail-gaters and slow pokes whose paths he just happens
to cross.

Oh, cowboys with engines strike fear in their minions,
No they'll stop at nothing to protect their dominions,
With the bullets to back up outrageous opinions,
It's best that you run, son, from cowboys with engines.

In the new old wild west outlaws still possess hair-trigger fingers, cold hearts of unrest,
So don't throw down a challenge, it could mean your death,
And the law can do little but clean up the mess.

Some commuters have sworn, in the hours before dawn, if you happen to be driving alone, a light fog will reveal the dead at the wheel, driving ghost cars to families back home.

Oh, cowboys with engines strike fear in their minions,
No, they'll stop at nothing to protect their dominions,
With the bullets to back up outrageous opinions,
It's best that you run, son, from cowboys with engines,
It's best that you run, son, from cowboys with engines.