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I broke free on a Saturday morning |
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I put the pedal to the floor |
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Headed north on Mills Avenue |
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And listened to the engine roar |
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My broken house behind me and good things ahead |
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A girl named Cathy wants a little of my time |
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Six cylinders underneath the hood crashing and kicking |
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Ahh, listen to the engine whine |
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I am going to make it through this year |
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If it kills me |
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I am going to make it through this year |
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If it kills me |
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I played video games in a drunken haze |
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I was 17 years young |
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Hurt my knuckles punching the machines |
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The taste of scotch rich on my tongue |
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And then Cathy showed up and we hung out |
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Trading swigs from a bottle, all bitter and clean |
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Locking eyes, holding hands |
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Twin high maintenance machines |
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I am going to make it through this year |
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If it kills me |
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I am going to make it through this year |
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If it kills me |
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I drove home in the California dusk |
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I could feel the alcohol inside of me hum |
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Pictured the look on my stepfather's face |
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Ready for the bad things to come |
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I down-shifted as I pulled into the driveway |
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The motor screaming out, stuck in second gear |
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The scene ends badly, as you might imagine |
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In a cavalcade of anger and fear |
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There will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year |
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I am going to make it through this year |
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If it kills me |
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I am going to make it through this year |
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If it kills me |
