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C'mon, ma, can I borrow the keys? |
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My generation is car-pooling with doom and disease |
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Buckle up, skipper--the New American Asterix |
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You're riding shotty with Jesus of Nascar-eth |
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At the end of the day, we all sittin' on twenty-fours |
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Three hundred and sixty five horses, no horse shit |
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With nothing but a learning permit |
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Delinquents on the autobahn poppin' our airbags off, worthless |
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I'm not depressed, man, I'm just a ****ing New Yorker |
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Who knows that sittin' in traffic with these bastards is torture |
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I'll be in a jalopy with a mami getting head rest |
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And howl at the glowing moon roof as proof that I'm not dead yet |
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And y'all can all give me a hummer (suck it) |
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'Cause in the meantime, I'ma pimp this ride like fly formula one-er |
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This is the El-Product summer |
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With a gleam of factory gun metal sheen grey and no vin number |
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(Chorus) |
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Drive, Drive, Drive |
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Hopped in the hooptie screaming "freedom is mine!" |
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Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive |
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Bumpin' the tune I so conveniently provide |
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Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive |
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Don't have to be flashy, I'll use any old ride |
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Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive |
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Hop in the whip and peel away, stay alive |
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Cars drive by with the booming system |
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Like New York is Fallujah with metal gear using Christians |
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Posted up for the gods of oil mining |
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In a military humvee with no bullet proof siding (sorry, guys) |
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Brooklyn, baby, I'm waterlocked walkin' nervous |
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When the curfew was imposed closing transportational service |
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This gonzo-matic fear turns me Hunter S. Thompson |
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With my lawyer leaning over the side view mirror vomiting |
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You call 'em windows, I call 'em asbestos lesseners |
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For this wheezing in my chest I'll need more than ****ing air fresheners |
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There ain't no easy pass, hands on the dash |
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You'll get rocked in casbah if you're moving too fast |
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Here come the cannon balls, run--get in your gremlin |
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The days of thunder's creepin' up sooner than you expected |
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Paranoid brethren disable their OnStar knowing they'll trace us |
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Pull us over and shout "get out le car!" |
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(Chorus) |
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These TV thugs got the heart of Herbie the Luv Bug |
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It don't take a speed racing mind to see that they're just thugs |
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I'll wrap your promo truck with a NAMBLA stencil |
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To prove that you're ****ing babies, frontin' up in a rental |
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I knew a kid who navigated a slippery |
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And fuel injected a speed ball on hs way to Atlantic City |
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Out the race before even making his mark |
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And now he'll never pick his shit up out of long term parking |
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My triple A card has one too many initials |
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And autobot on the fringe of liquid addiction spinning fish-tails |
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About to careen on some Toonces shit off the cliff (Toonces, no!) |
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But love of the sport of racing is keeping me out of coffins |
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Camu was like "**** it, just keep the beats dirty dusty" |
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I grabbed the CB radio like "ten-four, good buddy" |
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I'll keep running the track, even when muddy |
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'Cause my insurance don't cover leaving behind the pit crew that love me |
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So I drive |
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(Chorus) |
