My uncle has a country place
That no one knows about
He says it used to be a farm,
Before the Motor Law
And on Sundays I elude the Eyes,
And hop the Turbine Freight
To far outside the Wire,
Where my white-haired uncle waits
Jump to the ground
As the Turbo slows to cross the Borderline
Run like the wind,
As excitement shivers up and down my spine
Down in his barn,
My uncle preserved for me an old machine,
For fifty-odd years
To keep it as new has been his dearest dream
I strip away the old debris
That hides a shining car
A brilliant red Barchetta
From a better, vanished time
I fire up the willing engine,
Responding with a roar
Tires spitting gravel,
I commit my weekly crime
Wind-
In my hair-
Shifting and drifting-
Mechanical music-
Adrenalin surge
Well-weathered leather,
Hot metal and oil,
The scented country air
Sunlight on chrome,
The blur of the landscape,
Every nerve aware
Suddenly ahead of me,
Across the mountainside,
A gleaming alloy air-car
Shoots towards me, two lanes wide
I spin around with shrieking tires,
To run the deadly race,
Go screaming through the valley
As another joins the chase
Drive like the wind,
Straining the limits of machine and man
Laughing out loud
With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan
At the one-lane bridge
I leave the giants stranded at the riverside
Race back to the farm, to dream with my uncle at the fireside