Mistake on the Capital Expressway
With hands still soft, though stained with tar (one nail grown long for when I go home)
I turn the wheel as if displeased and double up the customers' unease their dread
I hear them talk in a foreign tongue (as if I could mistake their tone!)
Some rich boy tries to cut off me
I deal with him with a burst of speed then dead
And what a disappointing thing: my final sound these foreigners' screams
They hit the seats, the scene completes, I finally sleep along the street bled
Autor(es): Alpine Decline