Jettison

Six hundred miles an hour Three inches off the ground Your feet feel the conclusion As you pa*s the speed of sound A fine preoccupation Just how fast can you go? At eight hundred miles an hour Your blood begins to slow At an inch and then a half inch It's the damnedest thing Blades of gra*s whip past They slice they don't sting Nine hundred miles an hour A quarter inch off the ground A small gnat hits you You explode without a sound