He was driving on the highway,
A murder of crows in the rear view;
Passing turnip trucks, music turned up,
On icy sheets of glass.
In his Chevy, wondering what’s next –
Turned off along route three-five-six,
Near the junction, a lone tree burning.
Oh the ire, growing fire,
Lead foot on the gas
Clicking heels and spinning wheels;
Staying home tonight.