This is a crazy song about the 1963 Volkswagen T1 Microbus. [Intro] Brown Bakelite key clicks in, twist it. Single-dial speedo wakes, green blinker on the dash. Starter grinds once, and the whole bus lurches alive. Sand underfoot, fan belt humming—let's go. [Surf-guitar solo] [Bridge] Towels, cooler, map. Sandwich hand-off, "long lap." Cargo door latched, sheet metal tap. Radio on, windows down, wiper switch still lame. [Surf-guitar solo] '63 Samba, T1 Microbus, Rolling past the Shell station, roof vents open wide. Heading for the coast, salt spray misting the chrome, Surfboard lashed down tight, kids laughing, calling it our ride to roam. Gulls cry overhead, a distant foghorn moans, The ocean breeze carries the scent of kelp and sun-warmed stones. [Bridge] At the stop sign, it leans on leaf springs, nose dipping to the curb, Paint on the mirror, salt packed in the seams. Past the donut stand and the motel with the sagging sign, You pull the choke, ease it out, and let the mile markers slide behind. That square little cabin can haul a load. [Surf-guitar solo] Oh, sing it now, down that old road again, Windows open, radio crackling in the wind. Volkswagen T1 Samba microbus, You make a day out of nothing, time and again. [Bridge] Engine coughs, then catches with a pop, Flat-four rattles, ready to start. Keep the miles coming, sand in the seams, Boardwalk blur, Ferris wheel spin, snack-bar steam. [Surf-guitar solo] Hey now, roll on, roll on, Volkswagen, Hey now, roll on, roll on, Samba bus. Hey now, take the long way, coast to coast, Little blue bus, you carry the most. From the first cracked seat to the last gas stop, You keep on going till the speakers pop. Hey now, roll on, roll on, Volkswagen, Hey now, roll on, roll on, Samba bus. [Surf-guitar solo]
