Оригинален текст
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