Baby, steal the automobiles down
town and park where the solar system leaves
empties, like how the doctor mentions the easy

way out and you don't know if he's really talking
about orange bottles of sleeping pills or the south
127 on-ramp. You play the harmonica

with unapologetic lack
of vodka or motive, you pretend
insurance salesman. You

have unquenchable adoration for space
invaders, their ignition keys and their cold
fusion knee-highs. Oh baby,

drive the automobile down off
the cliff and kill a Mexican
boy and love me like a bicycle underwater.