Micky climbs into the driver seat.
It’s a `70 boss 302 in grabber yellow.
He’s dressed in his apprentice outfit.
He’s stolen the master’s hat.
The brooms are flooding the house.
Time to get away.
0 to 60 in 6. Flat out to fourth gear.
165 mph – the toploader whines, but does not complain.
The music is pumped up, the windows rolled down.
He-hep boys and girls we’re on the highway to hell!
There’s a nine-mil under the seat.
Fuzz-buster under the dash.
Pharmacy in the trunk.
This is not your childhood hero.
He’s a free mouse.
Take charge kinda guy.
He’s pounding out a Metallica beat on the steering wheel,
pauses to turn a CHP cruiser into a speckled lop-eared bunny rabbit.
Happy Fuckin’ Easter.
Another flip of the wrist produces a Chevron.
Car needs gas, mouse needs cheese.
He’s filling up when he sees her at the payphones.
The polka-dot skirt is unmistakable.
She’s yelling into the phone. Looking at him and yelling.
WALT. But he’s DEAD.
Mouse gotta flee.
Tops up and Takes off. Just tail lights in the sunset.