Oh the machine of a dream, such a clean machine
With the pistons a pumpin', and the hubcaps all gleam
When I'm holding your wheel
All I hear is your gear
With my hand on your grease gun
Mmm, it's like a disease, son
I'm in love with my car, gotta feel for my automobile
Get a grip on my boy racer roll bar
Such a thrill when your radials squeal
Told my girl I'll have to forget her
Rather buy me a new carburetor
So she made tracks saying this is the end, now
Cars don't talk back they're just four wheeled friends now
When I'm holding your wheel
All I hear is your gear
When I'm cruisin' in overdrive
Don't have to listen to no run of the mill talk jive
I'm in love with my car (love with my car),
Gotta feel for my automobile
I'm in love with my car (love with my car),
String back gloves in my automolove
Roger Taylor, Queen
Greasy slicked down body
Groovy leather trim
I like the way you hold the road
Mama, it ain't no sin
Talking 'bout love
Talking 'bout love
Talking 'bout
Trouble free transmission
Helps your oil's flow
Mama, let me pump your gas
Mama, let me do it all
Dig that heavy metal
Underneath your hood
Baby, I could work all night
Believe I've got the perfect tools
A model built for comfort
Really built with style
Specialist tradition
Mama, let me feast my eyes
Factory air conditioned
Heat begins to rise
Guaranteed to run for hours
Mama, it's a perfect size
Grooving on the freeway
Gauge is on the red
Gun down on my gasoline
Believe I'm gonna crack a head
Come to me for service
Every hundred miles
Baby, let me check your points
Fix your overdrive
Fully automatic
Comes in any size
Makes me wonder what I did
Before we synchronized
Feather light suspension
Coils just couldn't hold
I'm so glad I took a look
Inside your showroom doors
Talking 'bout love
Talking 'bout love
Talking 'bout
I can't stop talking about love
Page/Plant/Jones, Led Zeppelin
Я положил руки на руль, и что-то произошло.
Даже сейчас, после всех раздумий, я не совсем понимаю, что это было. Может быть, какое-то смутное видение – во всяком случае, оно не было долгим. На один миг мне вдруг померещилось, что старая, ободранная обивка куда-то пропала. Сиденья вдруг оказались покрытыми приятно пахнущим винилом… а может быть, это был запах натуральной кожи. На рулевом колесе исчезли потертые места; хром успокаивающе поблескивал в лучах летнего вечера, падающих через открытую дверь гаража. «Давай прокатимся, приятель, – казалось, прошептала Кристина в жаркой летней тишине гаража Лебэя. – Давай отправимся в путь».
Стивен Кинг, «Кристина»
