Parking lot, stars, cut hearts,
leather on the backseat, I like
the smell of petrol when it burns,
don’t make cars like they used to.
Blue Mustang, leather on the backseat,
tell me you’ve got a cut heart,
don’t make love like they used to.
I’ll walk away from everyone.
Petrol flush, hearts, a derelict car,
it runs on fear. Where do you go
when the city shrinks to a small town?
That’s where I left my youth.
Parking lot, cars, derelict fears,
I’ll walk away from everyone.
Tell me I don’t have a heart.
It goes on beating.
Comments
Mangone | May 13, 2009 - 21:10
Some people don't have hearts they have fuel pumps.
They drive around, full tilt,
hiding behind black glass
horns protruding,
trying to keep their roads
clear of crossing pedestrians.
The bigger the vehicle the bigger the bastard.
Wheels like tractors and egos like Zeplins! :O)