Yeah... Look at that thing, mate. Was a bucket yesterday. Not anymore. Bought that buga cheap, looked rough as hell, door wouldn’t shut and the heater smelled. Mate said, “Bin it.” — nah, not my style, give me one weekend, watch that junk go wild. Black rims spinning, suspension down low, little red light underneath that glows. Back-seat rattling, speakers too fat, neighbour at the window like, “What the hell’s that?” I don’t need classy, I need it mean. Something that growls when I hit the street. Chrome buga, rollin’ real slow, bassline shaking every window. Chrome buga, lights down low, don’t ask where we’re heading — we don’t know. Chrome buga... yeah, we made it strange. Chrome buga... nothing stays the same. [ Got a cheap amp wired with electrical tape, dashboard flashing like it’s trying to escape. New exhaust pipe, sounds way too proud, rev it once and wake the whole damn crowd. Mate in the passenger seat going, “Bro, behave,” while I’m turning round the corner like I own the place. Coffee in the holder, tools in the boot, one loose screw and a hell of an attitude. Tick-tick... click-click... Something ain’t right. Ah, sod it. Turn the music up. Chrome buga, rollin’ real slow, bassline shaking every window. Chrome buga, lights down low, don’t ask where we’re heading — we don’t know. Chrome buga... yeah, we made it strange. Chrome buga... nothing stays the same. No fancy badge, no rich-boy toy, just busted knuckles and too much noise. Made it ours from bumper to seat, bit of bad taste makes the thing complete. And if it breaks? We fix it again. Chrome buga, rollin’ real slow, whole damn block gonna feel that low. Chrome buga, headlights glow, built in the driveway, ready to go. Chrome buga... dirty little king. Chrome buga... hear that bastard sing. Engine coughs... Bruum... bruum... Still runs. Good enough.
