Автоэротизм

Oh the machine of a dream, such a clean machine

With the pistons a pumpin', and the hubcaps all gleam

When I'm holding your wheel

All I hear is your gear

With my hand on your grease gun

Mmm, it's like a disease, son

I'm in love with my car, gotta feel for my automobile

Get a grip on my boy racer roll bar

Such a thrill when your radials squeal

Told my girl I'll have to forget her

Rather buy me a new carburetor

So she made tracks saying this is the end, now

Cars don't talk back they're just four wheeled friends now

When I'm holding your wheel

All I hear is your gear

When I'm cruisin' in overdrive

Don't have to listen to no run of the mill talk jive

I'm in love with my car (love with my car),

Gotta feel for my automobile

I'm in love with my car (love with my car),

String back gloves in my automolove

Roger Taylor, Queen

Greasy slicked down body

Groovy leather trim

I like the way you hold the road

Mama, it ain't no sin

Talking 'bout love

Talking 'bout love

Talking 'bout

Trouble free transmission

Helps your oil's flow

Mama, let me pump your gas

Mama, let me do it all

Dig that heavy metal

Underneath your hood

Baby, I could work all night

Believe I've got the perfect tools

A model built for comfort

Really built with style

Specialist tradition

Mama, let me feast my eyes

Factory air conditioned

Heat begins to rise

Guaranteed to run for hours

Mama, it's a perfect size

Grooving on the freeway

Gauge is on the red

Gun down on my gasoline

Believe I'm gonna crack a head

Come to me for service

Every hundred miles

Baby, let me check your points

Fix your overdrive

Fully automatic

Comes in any size

Makes me wonder what I did

Before we synchronized

Feather light suspension

Coils just couldn't hold

I'm so glad I took a look

Inside your showroom doors

Talking 'bout love

Talking 'bout love

Talking 'bout

I can't stop talking about love

Page/Plant/Jones, Led Zeppelin

Я положил руки на руль, и что-то произошло.

Даже сейчас, после всех раздумий, я не совсем понимаю, что это было. Может быть, какое-то смутное видение – во всяком случае, оно не было долгим. На один миг мне вдруг померещилось, что старая, ободранная обивка куда-то пропала. Сиденья вдруг оказались покрытыми приятно пахнущим винилом… а может быть, это был запах натуральной кожи. На рулевом колесе исчезли потертые места; хром успокаивающе поблескивал в лучах летнего вечера, падающих через открытую дверь гаража. «Давай прокатимся, приятель, – казалось, прошептала Кристина в жаркой летней тишине гаража Лебэя. – Давай отправимся в путь».

Стивен Кинг, «Кристина»