Squeezed here inside my car where I feel free
To follow where the road beneath me leads,
When the entire world appears to be
Subservient to my discharging speeds.
My car is red and smooth, constructed low,
And every line’s so curved – obedient,
It goes to where my mind tells it to go
With absolute, immediate consent.
So why can’t women be more like my car?
Why do they fail when I put on the gas?
They’re red and smooth and curved and are –
If well maintained – as pretty as this lass,
Who even now tells me to pay attention,
For there is something wrong with her suspension.
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