| Lyrics: | My uncle has a country place
That no one knows about.
He says it used to be a
farm,
Before the Motor Law.
And on Sundays I elude the Eyes,
And hop the Turbine
Freight
To far outside the Wire,
Where my white-haired uncle waits.
Jump to the
ground
As the Turbo slows to cross the Borderline.
Run like the wind,
As excitement
shivers up and down my spine.
Down in his barn,
My uncle preserved for me an old
machine,
For fifty-odd years.
To keep it as new has been his dearest dream.
I
strip away the old debris
That hides a shining car.
A brilliant red Barchetta
From a
better, vanished time.
I fire up the willing engine,
Responding with a roar.
Tires
spitting gravel,
I commit my weekly crime...
Wind-
In my hair-
Shifting
and drifting-
Mechanical music-
Adrenalin surge...
Well-weathered
leather,
Hot metal and oil,
The scented country air.
Sunlight on chrome,
The
blur of the landscape,
Every nerve aware.
Suddenly ahead of me,
Across the
mountainside,
A gleaming alloy air-car
Shoots towards me, two lanes wide.
I spin
around with shrieking tires,
To run the deadly race,
Go screaming through the
valley
As another joins the chase.
Drive like the wind,
Straining the limits of
machine and man.
Laughing out loud
With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan.
At
the one-lane bridge
I leave the giants stranded at the riverside.
Race back to the farm,
to dream with my uncle at the fireside |
