| C’mon, ma, can I borrow the keys?
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| My generation is carpooling with doom and disease
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| Buckle up, skipper
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| The new american Asterix
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| You’re riding shotty with Jesus of Nascar-eth
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| At the end of the day, we all sittin' on 24s
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| 365 horses, no horseshit
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| With nothing but a learning permit
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| Delinquents on the autobahn poppin' our airbags off the worthless
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| I’m not depressed, man
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| I’m just a fucking New Yorker
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| Who knows that sittin' in traffic with these bastards is torture
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| I’ll be in a jalopy with a mami getting head rest
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| And howl at the glowing moon roof as proof that I’m not dead yet
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| And y’all can all give me the hummer
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| 'Cause in the meantime, I’mma pimp this ride like fly formula one-er
|
| This is the El-Product summer
|
| With a gleam of factory gun metal sheen grey and no vin number
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| Drive, Drive, Drive
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| Hopped in the hooptie screaming «freedom is mine!»
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Bumpin' the tune I so conveniently provide
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
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| Don’t have to be flashy, I’ll use any old ride
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Hop in the whip and peel away, stay alive
|
| Cars slide by with the booming system
|
| Like New York is Fallujah with metal gear using christians
|
| Posted up for the gods of oil mining
|
| In a military humvee with no bullet proof siding (sorry, guys)
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| Brooklyn, baby
|
| I’m waterlocked walkin' nervous
|
| When the curfew was imposed closing transportational service
|
| This gonzomatic fear turns me Hunter S. Thompson
|
| With my lawyer leaning over the side view mirror vomiting
|
| You call 'em windows, I call 'em asbestos lesseners
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| For this wheezing in my chest I’ll need more than fucking air fresheners
|
| There ain’t no easy pass
|
| Hands on the dash
|
| You’ll get rocked in casba if the movement’s too fast
|
| Here come the cannon balls, run
|
| Get in your gremlin
|
| The days of thunder’s creepin' up sooner than you expected
|
| Paranoid brethren disable their onstar knowing they’ll trace us
|
| Pull us over and shout «get out le car!»
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Hopped in the hooptie screaming «freedom is mine!»
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Bumpin' the tune I so conveniently provide
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Don’t have to be flashy, I’ll use any old ride
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Hop in the whip and peel away, stay alive
|
| These TV thugs got the heart of Herbie the Luv Bug
|
| It don’t take a speed racing mind to see that they’re just stuck
|
| I’ll wrap your promo truck with a nambla stencil to prove that you’re fucking
|
| babies
|
| Frontin' up in a rental
|
| I knew a kid who navigated it slippery
|
| And fuel injected a speed ball on his way to Atlantic City
|
| Out the race before even making his mark
|
| And now he’ll never pick his shit up out of long term parking
|
| My triple A card has one too many initials
|
| And autobot on the fringe of liquid addiction spinning fish-tails
|
| About to careen on some toonces shit off the cliff
|
| But love of the sport of racing is keeping me out of coffins
|
| Camu was like «fuck it, just keep the beats dirty dusty»
|
| I grabbed the CB radio like «10/4 good buddy»
|
| I’ll keep running the track
|
| Even when muddy
|
| 'Cause my insurance don’t cover leaving behind the pit crew that love me
|
| So I drive
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Hopped in the hooptie screaming «freedom is mine!»
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Bumpin' the tune I so conveniently provide
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Don’t have to be flashy, I’ll use any old ride
|
| Drive, Drive, Drive, Drive
|
| Hop in the whip and peel away, stay alive |