Did your dog release the parking brake of the old rust bucket?
and your ex-best
girl was a willing accomplice--at least you think that was her cherry black hair
streaming out the knothole patch in the back spiderwebbed window?
--leaving you no choice but to use one-eyed, half-eared, sharp whiskered Mr. Morris as your
headrest (yep, the pillow from that special night at Super 8 last April was in
the spare tire well of the chosen get away vehicle) as the third leg of your
Omaha--Missoula--Pullman flight is again delayed due to suspicious sundogs,
and you just want to share with someone not playing a tiny violin how this really
makes you feel, by gosh, yes, how you really feel? Share it all, in lyrics, with
us. Tell us, in your own words,as only you can: