Six hundred miles an hournThree inches off the groundnYour feet feel the conclusionnAs you pass the speed of soundnnA fine preoccupationnJust how fast can you go?nAt eight hundred miles an hournYour blood begins to slownnAt an inch and then a half inchnIt's the damnedest thingnBlades of grass whip pastnThey slice they don't stingnnNine hundred miles an hournA quarter inch off the groundnA small gnat hits younYou explode without a sound nn