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