http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related

Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
                                                           - the Toe-cutter

You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.

You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.

You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.

Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****,
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****,

or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.


Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-*****,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.


We ride!


Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, ****, yer a hick-****,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?

The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.


Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***,
or all muscle
in ****-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.

The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.

As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.

Pickin' up my pants
From her bedroom floor
Lookin' at my latest victim
From the night before

When I was drinkin' everything
Like it was going out of style

I was drowning my sorrows
When I saw her fire up a Marlboro
She was
Swingin' her hips left to right

I've had this feeling before
Although,
It's been awhile
As she cranked that volume dial

I saw ***** cut off shorts
Raining fabric to the floor
Wearin' a low cut top
Givin' everyone a show

She had ***** blonde hair
But, I bet there's none down there
I'm thinkin'
I might give it a go

Because, she's the town ****
And, I'm in a rut
I'm gonna
Give it to 'er tonight

I throw her on the bed
So she knows her place
I rip off her clothes
Adding a little slap on her face

Because, she's the town floosie
It's gonna be a doosie tonight

As I finish her off
She lets out a cough
And I just
Watch her there

As she lies in the wake
Of a psychopaths fate
She knows
She ain't goin' nowhere

Because she was the town hussie
And my mood was a little fussy
I just
Had to release

Myself unto another
And see the blood sputter
As I
Watched in peace

There’s a woman on the phone who says she’s pregnant, explanation.
Well, in simple terms, the man has to impregnate the woman, this may take several occasions, but you get the gist.
Oh I get the gist alright, so how many occasions did it take.
Well, it's hardly the thing you talk about when you’re planning a baby.
What, how long has this been going on.
How would I know, might be one night, might be long term, why don't you ask her.
I’m not asking your floosie things like that, you should know.
Typical woman, just because a pregnant woman is on the phone, you naturally assume the worse.
I have reason to assume the worse, the neighbours bed you assembled.
Don’t remind me of that, Chinese instructions, it was a nightmare.
I was more thinking of how I caught you in bed with her.
You didn’t catch us in the physical sense, we were testing the bed.
And you had to be naked to do that.
She’s Scandinavian, that’s what they do.
You were under the covers.
She was covering her modesty, the embarrassment you caused that day.
Yeah, I’m gutted.
You really  have to do something about this paranoia.
Are you saying I’m nuts.
Well, the facts do speak for themselves.
You’re so right, it’s a strange thing paranoia, sometimes I think young James isn’t yours.
Just as well he’s the spitting image of me then.
Yes, that’s the strange thing, he’s the spitting image of your brother too.
What, what are you saying, have you been bedding my brother.
Not in the physical sense I think
Well in that case young James is definitely mine then.
Don’t know, the ****** your brother used, the instructions were in Chinese.

Paul Gaffney & Lily Nurmi.