Pull the car over you’re frightening the kids.
What did you promise us about grinning in the rear view without your fake teeth in?
Keep your glass eye glued on the end of the highway up ahead of us.
The collision is always licking its lips. You weren’t supposed to open the door.
Just keep the plan from drifting of course.
We’ll attend to the terrified first class convinced there’s a hoof print on the bow.
All hail the wounded heart contingents who’ve given us something
More than faultlessness to sing about.
Long live the prosthetic live wires.
The faulty mechanism of hope has disintegrated.
Your captain nailed his feet to someone else’s ship at the sight of me.
Do what your mother tells you and put down the sheriff’s horse.
The choir on the black box rejoiced splendidly, singing hallelujah the king is dead.
The king is dead.
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