The shortest distance isn't the one
We find waiting under mid-day sun;
It's the one winds through the street,
At the lowest point, then goes beneath;

Or the one who calls at three a.m.
Needing coffee, or tonic and gin;
Needing a ride, to anywhere
Some place that’s dim, and never clear.

It's arms that wrap around our own,
While knowing, it's an unsafe trek-
But still a journey, we know too well-
The paradise-encumbered road to hell.