I’m the guy at the cruise ins
Whose parts have never been
Installed by me
Something I don’t want you to see.
I sit back in my folding chair.
Sixty Five years with yellow-silver braided hair.
Underneath my official hot rod hat.
I’m much too short and a little too fat.
I have the most expensive hot rod here.
It has all the best parts never fear.
A Vee Twelve Ferrari motor in a highboy duce.
This Italian-American hybrid goose.
I sign the checks that build the car.
A process from me done afar.
I can’t tell you it’s camshaft specifications.
To meet your expectations.
One guy built the frame
I paid him lots of money just the same.
Certainly not my claim to fame
Another guy did the exhaust in this assembly game.
I stand around in front of my car
Like some sort of hot rod rock star.
With my arms folded in front of me
I got all the answers you see.
At least that’s what I want you to think.
The real car guys know I’m just a dink.
With a bottomless pocket book.
When turned upside down and shook.
Pukes credit cards and rod shop phone numbers.
Their prowess to my knowledge outnumbers.
My abilities with any sort of hand tools.
Which to me are only used by blue collar fools.
I’ve never held a TIG torch in my hand.
Couldn’t tell the difference between chrome moly and
Stainless steel, by the look or the feel.
Doesn’t really matter because I’m not the real deal.
You’ll never know unless you press me in conversation.
Something I shun with extreme reservation.
I just stand there and shake my head yes or no.
Your words come in bounce around and go.
Yeah I’m one smug son-of-a-bitch.
Hey not my fault that I’m rich.
And I happen to like cars.
You should hear my spiel in the bars.
I got a baseball hat that says “Faux”
My favorite one don’t you know.
I don’t know what it means.
It just looks cool with my jeans.
I like wearing it makes people laugh.
They think I’m the “Golden Calf.”
Gold chains around my neck.
With a Ferrari emblem to spec
A guy in an old Oldsmobile called me an asshole
He said my car smokes like a fumarole
Whatever that is, the motor is Italian you know.
Motor oil out the exhaust pipes does blow.
So I’m the king of the cruise ins.
Even though no one talks to me that’s been.
Parked next to me for the day.
I tell them not to blow dust my way.
When parking next to me.
It’s my way you see.
Unless you are the guy in the Oldsmobile.
Who told me to fuck off for a while.
When his car blew dust all over my high boy.
My pristine Italian-American toy.
My dust broom stuff I had to employ.
Someone told me my car wasn’t the real McCoy?