Lyrics

There's a town called Waycross, Georgia
Right up highway 301
Was ruled by a redneck robo-cop
Who lived and died by the gun
Holman Moody built the engine
In his '63 fastback
He thought the highway from Daytona
Up to Folkston his racetrack

Clinker Bill stood five foot three
And shaved his bullet head
His neck was 'a thick as a telephone pole
And burned a crimson red
He weighted about 250
Very little of it fat
Forty-eight inch chest
With a size five baseball cap

He didn't love no friends of Jesus
'Cause they had long hair
But he'd get drunk with all the locals
If they'd but the beer
He was hell on heads with a pool cue
Knocking' hippies down
And God help the poor stranger
Caught littering the town

Clinker Bill said if you out ran him
That was well and good
That big bad Ford was much too fast
No one ever could
Then a boy came up from Jacksonville
On a Harley Sportster bike
Said I'll fix Clinker and his frog
Come first moonless night

Bill was doing double nickels
Kickin' back, resting a spell
When something blew on by him
And he screamed "what the hell"
The radar showed 140
He saw nothing up ahead
"It's some reefer smoking cyclist
"Boy you're as good as dead

Bill got right up behind him
His red lights flashing with the blue
Then two blinding high beams flipped on
Wasn't nothing he could do
Nails and boards and broken glass
Were Clinker's final fall
He won't be selling no more tickets
To the policemen's ball

There's a town called Waycross, Georgia
Right up highway 301
Was ruled by a redneck robo-cop
Who lived and died by the gun
Clinker Bill stood five foot three
Used to shave his bullet head
But now he don't do that anymore
Clinker Bill is dead