I’m stopped on my way to Sacramento
Held in my blanket that is the heat
Resting in my convertible from Azusa
Sadly thinking about all my defeats
I’m alone and awake and the stereos gone
So my last only option is to drive
In parched, barren land are my surroundings
How do any of these people thrive
Some sweet single man was conspiring
To have all his strange ways with me
It seems I just looked good perspiring
I said no, but I should have yelled the fee.
And the antenna’s flying back and forth
And slapping against my windshield
Surprised that it hasn’t just cracked off before.
As some saint said, ‘To the winds all things yield’.
This road isn’t just a road anymore
It’s a road to a path to a fictional home
Even before that fanned shit hit the floor
I had been being gnawed to the bone
Now I’m getting quite close to Frisco
The air has been starting to thin
The clouds have never seemed this low
And that’s where this poem goes ‘Fin’.