Jettison - Naked Raygun

Six hundred miles an hour

Three inches off the ground

Your feet feel the conclusion

As you pass the speed of sound

A fine preoccupation

Just how fast can you go?

At eight hundred miles an hour

Your blood begins to slow

At an inch and then a half inch

It’s the damnedest thing

Blades of grass whip past

They slice they don’t sting

Nine hundred miles an hour

A quarter inch off the ground

A small gnat hits you

You explode without a sound