[Intro – spoken, half-laughing already] Oi, oi, oi, gather round the workbench, lads Breakaway Squad in the garage again, beers open, tempers flaring mad Marc’s got the mini stripped down, motor spinning, gears in a pile But now it’s kicking off proper—gear ratios, bruv, this argument’s wild [Verse one] “Put the twenty-five turn in, low end torque, innit bruv?” “Nah, fam, that’s slow as shit, you’re dreaming of love” “High RPM, pin the throttle, fly through the straights like a rocket” “You lot are chatting bollocks, listen to the socket” Gear ratio debate turns savage, voices rising over the drill “Six point five to one, that’s the sweet spot, gives you the proper thrill” “Nah, seven point two, more acceleration out the hairpin bends” “Fuck that, you’ll cook the motor, watch it smoke before it ends” [Chorus – haiku style] Gears clash, tempers flare Motors scream for the right spin Breakaway madness [Verse two] Pare, bakit ba kayo ganito, arguing like it’s life or death? Motor choices splitting the squad, taking away our breath One wants brushed for cheap power, reliable in the heat Other shouts, “Brushless all day, feel that torque in your seat!” “Pinion too big, you’ll strip the spur, watch the teeth fly off” “Pinion too small, top speed’s dead, you’ll get left in the dust, soft” Marc just stands there grinning, remote in hand, letting it burn While we’re red in the face, calculating ratios, taking our turn [Chorus – haiku style] Ratios battle hard Torque versus speed, endless war Squad divided now [Verse three] Tangina, bro, your setup’s trash, that motor’s gonna grenade “Oi, shut your mouth, your last run was slower than a parade” We’re measuring teeth with calipers, arguing mesh and slop One lad’s got spreadsheets open, proper nerding, won’t stop “Fourteen tooth pinion, twenty-eight spur, that’s the golden mean” “Nah, thirteen and thirty, acceleration’s obscene” Beers get knocked over, minis rolling off the bench in chaos But deep down we know—tomorrow we’ll test ’em all, no loss [Verse four] Breakaway Squad forever, even when we’re at each other’s throats Arguing motors and gears till the sun hits the garage floats Marc finally speaks up, “Lads, shut it—let’s just run the lot” Line ’em up on the track, full send, see whose setup’s hot One by one they launch, sparks flying, tires gripping tight Some pull ahead screaming, others bog down in the fight But win or lose, we’re laughing, slapping backs, buying the next round Gear ratio wars—best nights in this sacred ground [Final Chorus – haiku style] Motors roar alive Gears decide who claims the win Breakaway brothers
