Tempo

In that heap of sheet metal and glass
we climbed in and then hauled ass,
rolling on four stretched rubber-bands
I listened to all your shitty bands,
it was a race before we ran outta gas,
and yet we were always getting passed,
that mound of junk died every stop,
and we prayed we didn't pass a cop,
that shit-can was more matter than mass,
I can't believe we never ran outta gas,
and yet I think I miss it a little bit,
you, me, and your Tempo piece of shit.