Foot On The Gas, Four On The Floor
A trigger haired carb,
with a back fire like a gun.
Sun gleamed bright off spraypaint,
five cans straight flat black.
Flatline etched into the stripe,
running front to back.
'Highway to Hell' seemed true.
Pushin' her to her limits as 'Hell's Bells' played its tune.
Rearview mirror torn off, this time no looking back.
I'll forget, this damn forsaken past.