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