Burning rubber with time on tap.
Turning corners on a whitewashed map.
A car full of scars, an electric guitar,
which he plays to some old school rap.
Hiding vices in fumes full of lead,
White rabbits running through his head.
Pulled to the side, for his traffic guise
And a tyre with a run-down tread.
So pray if you rally in the rear.
If you scream he is not going to hear.
A sub-woofer to suit, an amp in the boot
and a cradle to harness his beer.
Not all would play in this storm
His girlfriend blasted the horn.
With pedal to metal and a score to settle
It’s a curse that reaps his scorn.
Tearing down that Tuscan road,
beaming like a sprawling toad.
The past eats dust, while he keeps trust
in the wheels, which carry him home.
By D.J Webb