a tarmac tableau, over/under seventy
middle-distance panorama's heavenly,
burn down the fuel tank, fill 'er up, everything is entropy
highway hypnosis, we're ridin with muscle memory
caffeine and sugar highs, lung at least part-black
cat's eyes and tarmac, the out-of-body carjack
four-wheel, five-door escape hatch
sense of disconnection burn away at the same rate as your brake pads
priests police flocks with the promise of redeeming 'em
wanted me to join 'em but i simply wasn't feeling 'em
never a churchgoer, motorways always holier
set the sat-nav for utopia. follow.
central reservation mirage shimmer from heat
rusty bodywork, tired heart, brakes shot
a one-way mirror, not a two-way street
[what are you escaping from?] well, what have you got?

not when I'm gonna stop but who's gonna stop me
burn fuel like molotovs, it's Tommy Kowalski
with no radio station assisting
wonderin if i've got enough horsepower to outrun the system
but freedom of the soul seems a fool's act
when i can't stop the blood dripping out from underneath the fuel cap
feels illegal but the speedo needle don't go high enough
to overtake myself when moods crack
trynna get ahead of fate, giving it the best we got
flowers round the speed sign, mortality's forget-me-not
this to me's philosophy, the soundtrack's cylinder dynamics
shout to all unpopular mechanics
drive like all connections are cut. widowed and orphaned
neither the destination nor journey are important
check signs for answers but there's not many there
living in a road movie where nobody gets anywhere