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

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