Red Car Girl

I'm a red car girl.
Say it purring, say it husky,
Give me that attitude:
I'm a Red Car Girl.

And when I say I'm a Red Car Girl,
I mean my car is red, not yours.
I mean Valentine's Day red,
Star-and-Stripes Red,
Lipstick red,
Devil's red,
Purple Haze Red.

I'm a Red Car Girl
Although I didn't know it
Until I neared 50, and said to my husband,
"I want a red car for my birthday.
Guys always get a red car when they turn fifty;
You did.
So, I want a red car when I turn fifty."

And he produced a red Cadillac El Dorado
That had the best interior God detailed:
Fine white leather, chrome, burnished appointments,
Bose to the max, and Surround sound,
And eight cylinders in its souped-up North Star engine.
I became a Red Car Girl on the spot.

That car outran anything on the interstates.
When I turned on my ignition,
Police in three counties got ready.

Guys would eye me
Lustfully, but also with respect
If they could compute the cost
Of the Red Car Girl.

At the red light, we'd gun our motors,
And I could beat anything in town on green.
Bring on your GTOs, your Porsches, Jaguars,
Your little red Corvettes.
I sneer at baby Beamers and super-sized vanities,
Infinities of unnamable coupes and convertibles.

Of course, I had to get out of town a time or two
Or just lay low and crawl under cover of night
Because of my fine red car.

But I'm a Red Car Girl.
Check me out.
Anytime.

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