Paroles: Terry Allen. Truckload of Art.

Once upon a time, sometime ago
Back on the East coast in New York City, to be exact
A bunch of artists and painters and sculptors and musicians
And poets and writers and dancers and architects

All started feeling real superior to their ego counterparts
Out on the West Coast
So they all got together and decided
They would show those snotty surfer upstarts
A thing or two about the Big Apple

And they hired themselves a truck
It was a big, spanking new white-shiny chrome-plated cab-over
Peterbilt with mud flaps, stereo, TV, AM and FM radio
Leather seats and a Naugahyde sleeper

All fresh with new American Flag decals and "ART ARK"
Printed on the side of the door with solid twenty-four karat gold leaf type
And they filled up this truck with the most significant piles
And influential heaps of art work to ever be assembled in modern times

And it sent it West
To chide, cajole, humble and humiliate the Golden Bear
And this is the true story of that truck

Hail, a truckload of art from New York City
Came rollin' down the road
Oh, the driver was singing and the sunset was pretty
But the truck turned over and she rolled off the road

Yeah, the truckload of art, it's burning near the highway
Precious objects are scattered all over the ground
And it's a terrible sight if a person were to see it
But there weren't nobody around

Yeah, the driver went sailing high in the sky
Landing in the gold lap of the Lord
Who smiled and then said, "Son, you're better off dead
Than haulin' a truckload full of hot avant-garde"

Yeah, the truckload of art, it's burning near the highway
Precious objects are scattered all over the ground
And it's a terrible sight if a person were to see it
But there weren't nobody around

Yes, an important artwork was thrown burning to the ground
Tragically landing in the weeds
And the smoke could be seen, ah, for miles all around
Yeah, but nobody knows what it means

Yeah, the truckload of art, it's burning near the highway
And a tough job for the highway patrol
Ah, they'll soon see the smoke an' come runnin' to poke
Then dig a deep ditch and throw the arts in a hole

Yeah, the truckload of art, it's burning near the highway
And it's raging far out of control
And what the critics have cheered is now shattered and queered
And their noble reviews have been stewed on the road

Yeah, the truckload of art, it's burning near the highway
Precious objects are scattered all over the ground
A terrible sight if a person were to see it
But there weren't nobody around