At one hundred ten
I will wash my hair in wind
And dry it in the Beartooth's arid shade.
At one hundred ten
I will wash my face in sun
And feel its scald
Far into the night.
At one hundred ten
I will wash my heart in speed
And spread it out to dry
On double chrome exhausts.
At one hundred ten
I will wash my life in hope so foul
It must contain the waters of despair.
At one hundred ten
The laughing road will rip my jeans
And I will bare my ass to Death.