Mountain Road,
Soft rain buzzed gently down,
From the milky sky,
With the smell of mint chocolate chip ice cream,
Onto a pleasant little blue car,
That crept down the sloping turns,
While the two passengers chatted,
About their lives.

Their yipping little dog,
The mother-in-law's fried chicken,
At Sunday dinner,
A trip to San Francisco.

With the converstation drifting,
Over their warm interlocked fingers,
And the radio hummed a song,
That they both liked,
As the open mouth of a tunnel,
Swallowed their little car,
And the rain remained outside,
While they kept talking,
About their life together.