Pantechníª driver,
exiled outsider,
landlocked he dreams
of turbines and steam.
Pantechné driver,
motorbike rider,
on lost roads he hides
an east west divide,
in wastelands of time.
Old pantechnicon dreams,
we wanna be right.
Back up to the old world
and into tonight.
Programmed into our nerves
and over the sky,
concrete forms in our minds,
exhaust in our eyes.
Stop, sketch the scene,
the past comes clean.
Easy rider, older, wiser,
come with me,
come with me