I’m in a ’57 Buick, beautifully blue,
my big brother and his buddy let me hold the wheel.
Chased by the mortal dust down Sixth Avenue,

we floored it, pushing the nose down, powering through
to the red zone, where the danger would seem more real,
in a ’57 Buick, beautifully blue,

we were two teens and one kid. Not one of us knew
that a race was actually on; that this power and steel,
chased by the mortal dust down Sixth Avenue,

had to stop at the stop sign. You can blow by the graveyard, but you
can’t outrun the dust, which follows as part of the deal.
In a ’57 Buick, beautifully blue,

we were too young to know, yet, how time’s fatal screw
turns down so slowly. It’s a pressure you gradually feel.
Chased by the mortal dust down Sixth Avenue,

we’ve all been overtaken, slowly. My brother is a few
black ashes in an urn, now. It’s a judgement we could not repeal
in a ’57 Buick, beautifully blue, chased by the mortal dust down Sixth Avenue.