Take a ticket, front row seat.
Hear the roar beneath your feet.
Feel your engines scream in vain,
as you grip the window pain.
Try to look outside the glass,
But each image moves too fast.
Faces blurred beyond repair,
Cities crumble from the wear.
Whistling winds at fever pitch.
Bony fingers lose their grip.
Time to exit, fade to black.
As the train moves down the track.
As the train moves down the track.
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