Six hundred miles an hour
Three inches off the ground
Your feet feel the conclusion

As you pass the speed of sound

A fine preoccupation

Just how fast can you go?
At eight hundred miles an hour
Your blood begins to slow


At an inch and then a half inch
It's the damnedest thing

Blades of grass whip past
They slice they don't sting


Nine hundred miles an hour
A quarter inch off the ground
A small gnat hits you

You explode without a sound