Speeding home on a hot summer evening,
You can see the storms brewing
On the horizon, far off over the
Still farms.  What a waste of space.

The road is the barrel of a gun,
We the bullet, rushing through it,
To get to the light we see at the end,
So fast you can hardly tell the difference
Between the corn rows and the trees.

As the sun crawls down below the
Horizon CAUTION: CONGESTED AREA.
SLOW DOWN.  We don’t.  Crumbling wooden
Buildings, peeling paint.  A few stragglers
Still working listlessly in this tiny town.

We whip into the driveway, you
Hop out before we can stop,
And you sprint off at a thunderclap.