you kept a death grip on the armrest.
you slept while i swerved through bumps and dips.
you lept at the chance to act alarmist.
you swept past my face like an eclipse.

you act like i'm your chum and i can treat you like my little sister.
but if you cover the sun with your thumb you can't expect to get a fever blister.
and if the air is filled with a sickening hum,
don't be upset or overcome.
don't worry.
it's just the irony engine working.

you rose like a crane to the occasion.
you froze at the very implication.
you chose to divert the whole invasion.
by winking and shrugging and smiling and giving me an awkward seatbelt hug
before you vanished in the chilly autumn.
i could feel the motor chug.
something tearing loose and striking bottom.
and if you still can't see how a three point plug
could superheat on the lunar tug.
don't worry.
it's just the irony engine working.
yeah don't worry.
it's just the irony engine working.