Two-Lane Blacktop

                         After the painting Sunrise III by W. Koral Sally

What I need to know, countryboy,
are you in or are you out?
And, no, we don't street race
for pink slips or drugs. I don't
want your car.
Just put up the dead presidents.

Down Route 10 they told us
we'd find real race cars here. What
Pam and I see are sad,
slow pieces of shit with orange-peel paint.
Man, I notice not even semi's haulin' pigs to Fort Smith
have time to stop for coffee.

Yeah, that's my Camaro, primered
like they did back in the day.
We baptized the new big-block with a
quart of oil then drove Cinderella over dirt roads to give
her that working-girl look.
She's got a T5-6 backed by a Ford nine-inch, topped
it with dual Quadrajets.
Bring on what you got, roadster, gasser, pro-street!

Sweet Pamela, I met her in my backwater
Pennsylvania town. When my dad died I was nineteen.
We hit the road with what he left, a set of Craftsman tools,
and a Ford station wagon.
Pam does the arm-drop.
We flip for lane choice, straight up, no break-out,
one run takes all. If cops come, it's everyman for himself.

You're lookin' at these fine leather
coats? Took them from two dealers in East L.A.
who thought they could race. See,
the pockets are slits to trigger sawed-off shot guns.
We're all business. Remember,
when the arms drop the bullshit stops. There
ain't no peace, no sanctuary here; just the rev
of engines, headlights high showin' two-lane blacktop.

And when Pam raises her arms for the drop,
don't get interested. More than one hick took too long a look,
lost off the line lookin' when he mighta', coulda',
shoulda' been racin'.

Now, before the mayor comes to roll up
the sidewalk in your town, make
up your mind, farmboy, are you in or are you out?

Ante up, hop in, shut up, hang on.