Frank was a contractor, who got up every morining.
Skinn'n cats and fix'n cars, his day was far frm boring.
Souped up Ford, V-8 289, running down those punks was always on his mind.
Frank was a contractor.
Is he after you?
Frank was a contractor.
Is he after you?
Ford was wired for nitro. Canister sat in the back.
Ten inch slicks, ratchet shift, smoke, rubber layed in his tracks.
Frank didn't like us, just wanted to have some fun.
So we played our music, and he put us on the run.
Frank was a contractor.
Is he after you?
Frank was a contractor.
Is he after you?
Frank started the beast. Smoke spewed from the trunk.
Oil sprated from the hood, that can of nitro junk.
The car swelled then exploded, flying across the street.
Frank slowly stepped out, staggering to his feet.
Frank was a contractor.
Is he after you?
Frank was a contractor.
Is he after you?
So our story ends, with the psycho contractor guy.
Moral of the story is "if Franks around, turn the music down, and you better learn how to run fast"