WORDS OF THE LIVING

(DAY TRIP)

Cackling of a radio
The sound of worn wheels, against the country voice
So many wagons picked by choice
But my fiesta, is the Royce
Down a country lane
Passed the trees and fields of grain
Past the bales, it's all the same
To the sound of wind against the bodywork

I'll take mine on a special trip
Then I'll hit the drag strip
The smell of burning rubber
Flash of a yellow colour
Jolt of speed
No sense I'll heed
As I head down the quarter mile

Past a groaning corvette
Third but we're not finished yet
Foot to the floor
Give er' some more

Now we lead
As the line comes to greet me
This, is where I want to be
In the front of my fiesta
I send you the besta'
Luck in beating me
For we shall see
The lowered, winged beast
On other cars, it shall feast
For this is where I want to be