| When the streets are steaming, the big slicks scream
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| As they burn down the quarter mile
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| And those lean brown boys in their sleeveless shirts
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| Curse the heat when it cramps their style
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| Only the chicano in his body shop
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| Say «In cherry red she looks so fine»
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| While his brothers burn the chops of the Catholic kids
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| From West Covina to the county line
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| Cherio my baby say don’t you know me The rich kid in the Karman Ghia
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| Well I bought these wheels just to make you feel
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| That I’m a street kid not a racketeer
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| Should we grab a bite where the greasers eat
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| Watch them choppers cruise up the strand
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| Or should we park where it’s dark
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| And tune the am into the sounds of the old Wolfman
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| When she’s spent your candleshe learned your handle
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| She says honey let me see you shift
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| So your floor it into fifth down to the liquer store
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| Where a fake I’d can score a fifth
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| Sonny Matao say to Susie Elaina
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| Maybe we could steal your sister’s car
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| And grab ourselves a six pack and head on down
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| To the drive-in at canoga Park
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| When the surfers hit Topanga once they quit the waves |
| And they roll back into Woodland Hills
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| Where the bleached blond girls in their faded jeans
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| Bring 'em burgers from the bar-n-grill
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| When they’ve stashed their boards and climed up on Them wagons just to eat up the night
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| It’s a crackerjack box with no surprise
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| When your lady’s sinking judes and whites
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| I’ve had a hell of a week up on over the hill
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| And now there’s a valley between
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| But if you won’t see me Friday I might as well
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| Throw a monkey wrench in my machine
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| Cause I saddle soaped the buckets shined the chrome
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| Polished up the panel lights
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| Until you can check your makeup in the fuel gauge
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| And I can dazzle you |