I drive a yellow Volvo. '86 submarine. Someone's behind me in an escalade trying to blind me with their high beams. I make a left. I'm the road to nowhere, heading west. The sky is purple streaks. The sun is setting in my chest. I feel warm inside. So I'm going for a ride. Put your picture on my dashboard 'til my fate and your collides.

Seaweed washed upon the shore.
Severed locks of he who walks the ocean floor.

I drive a yellow Volvo. '86 submarine. Rims like Tibetan prayer wheels and my tank is filled with dreams. Fuck the game, I practice being in the passing lane. And watch the price of gasoline rise with the price of fame. I'm immortal. I render unto Ceasar to be cordial. He sees a wooden casket where I see a glowing portal. Check your engine. Looks like you're running on the blood of Indians. Put some turquoise in that rolls Royce before you crash into a pendulum.

Seaweed washed upon the shore.
Severed locks of he who walks the ocean floor.

I drive a yellow Volvo. '86 submarine. I drove it under water guided by my own high beams. Nothing's left. Witnessed the demolition of the west. I feel like a little kid hiding in my mothers' dress. I'm in space. The lone ambassador of every race. The starfish that discover me plant their flags into my face. I'm a clone of every written and unwritten poem. A shark pulls up beside me fingering beads and chanting om. I can't believe it. I never really thought that sharks would need it. I thought they'd make their peace: bite it, bleed it, kill it, eat it. But I was wrong. Every living being deserves a song. And our passions must be rationed 'til our rations sing along.