The Life of The Man Who Always Arrives First At The End Of The Race

You set off in your Pontiac Trans Am, driving madly, driving crazy.
First the people turned to blurs, then they turned into her,
then there was just nothing.

I don't even have to remark about the end, because the end was in your eyes,
kind of purple a bit. Kind of orange. How about a little blue?
Sure, you said, gazing distantly.

See the dead bird somehow floating, away into the sky?
Picks itself up from its own ashes -- that dead bird never cries.
Upside down and diagonally, a spinning-bird-kick,
even a little jelly, for the senile and the sick.

Once again, they're pointing out to me how scared I'd been at first.
Didn't know how to press any buttons, didn't even know they could be pressed.
And when I get myself to the end, I start feeling lonely by myself:
I thought they'd be here to hang around, all my little friends.

.

But in this world, no one comes around, to hang around or
just shoot the shit.

In this world they will make you suffer, they will make you stutter,
claiming you no longer have your fins.

This is why she keeps banging, and banging on my head.
She wants to assert quite fully that I'm still not dead.