He sits shotgun by the window watching the wheat roll by.
Speeding down the country road, only one thing’s on his mind-
And it ain’t the G-men seven miles behind.
The clouds don’t give a damn about who he is,
Where he comes from, or who he knows.
But he doesn’t care either, to hell with those
Who hold him back and say he has to conform.
Conform to a life corrupted, to a world unjust;
He’ll bust out lookin’ for the wind on his face.
And he’ll find it too.
Now those clouds are upon him, steadily gaining.
The lightning screams and the tires crash.
And it’s all over faster than the Tommy’s flash.
He lays in the gravel, dust in his hair, bleeding from his heart.
The clouds stand above him, and his fedora blows away
To keep the spirit alive of a warrior who played his part;
Livin’ the good life at no one’s pace but his own-
Sitting shotgun on a country road watching the wheat roll by.
July 12, 2009