Your DeLorean bloom sleeps with its eyes
open on the lawn, lured into the contented sighs
of post-coital chords, crooning
its quadrangular arms around the eucalyptus tree.

And where are you? Feeling up the girl beside you,
scanty pants with the pockets ripped along the butt cheeks.
You bought the record to be cool, and it worked.

Pulse of guitars, subtle keyboard, promises
and climax. Everything resolves into
a G major silence.