We come from a time where the cars are slow
Where the race ain't won coz the engines blow
The chatter of the rods
We drive our cars to Brooklands
To beat the Ford, Singer and Austin
We holler, we are losing
On we creep, a thrashing roar
A gaping hole, my foot's right through the floor.

We come from a time where the cars are slow
Where the race ain't won coz the engines blow
It coughed, with yields un-green
With loadsa fails in store
Our backs were harmed, the rides were poor
We won't be beating Fords
On we creep, a thrashing roar
A gaping hole, we've blown the piston bore
So now we'd better stop and rebuild all our engines
This piece of rust can't win the day
Despite of all our cruising.