At the concrete loop they called him Madman
Madmen can still be sadmen
With the engine roar I feel the tension soar
Because once you crash they’ll call you trash
And the “3-2-1 start!” is the beat, beat, beat, of his heart
At the racetrack he steals his pace back
As he sees his carrier begin to flicker he may begin to drink some liquor
Maybe a little drain from cocaine
Once you’re done it’s the setting of a sun
So all you’ll ever be is a faded memory
But guys with fast cars still leave scars
Though you are forgotten at least you can say you got in
Unlike that one face at every chase

Someone in the crowd
Wishing they could drive

Annabella Lynch ’16