R A C

It must be fine to be so free.
Inside machines of liberty.
It must be grand to travel far.
Command the god they call the car.
To hold the wheel in human hands.
And kill the world, and slay the lands.
To see and travel in such style.
That twelve must die, for every mile.
Your carriage carries more than you.
It is the ghost of all you slew.
A luxury beyond all sense.
Whose rule assaults intelligence.
The costs invisible comprise.
The deadly worm, the lethal lies.
That leads us into travesty.
While whispering our majesty.
In images of nature pure.
The demon looms and sets the lure.
We strike, and thus are stricken.
As our machinations sicken.
Both our world and all we see.
The car, my son, will “set you free”.