Clouds triumph over the little bay of macadam behind the shops,
Like the area behind a supermarket.
They parade on jubilantly

The sun is a medallion I am not allowed to wear
There is a house arrest bracelet on my ankle
And my bike is chained to a telephone pole.

I am on break, smoking one

My boss doesn't know about the house arrest bracelet,
I keep it concealed under loose denim,
My phone is blaring Back in Black.

I am rolling along the highway with a tribe of hooligans
I am playing a guitar solo on top of an old van,
Cutting up the clouds with my body as it screams along the highway

Cocktails in different locations,
Making out with felinish women behind stages.

I wonder if I'll ever make it there,
Or if I'll be left behind in the wake of smooth operators
Forced to stifle my groaning bones as she walks into the sun
(MY sun)
With him, hand in hand.