Tossin’ and turnin’, sweatin’ out bourbon, by daybreak the sheets were in knots. I put on my shoes and walked out of my room to the Voyager out in the lot. You can’t be loquacious about old occupations, you can’t trust whoever you meet. Say I worked reception at the doors of perception and carried your bags to your suite.
Curing your ailments, enduring derailments, living my life door to door. I’m your personal mailman, your traveling salesman, but no one wants encyclopedias anymore. I guess they must’ve heard it all before.
I’m adjusting my mirrors as if all of my fears can only sneak up from the past, while at the end of my hood there is nothing that’s good that can happen when I hit the gas. Passed a scene in the shoulder on my way over, cops swarming like bees on a jar. A dusty old Lincoln tossed like a pigskin, blown open like a Matchbox car.