A Cool Myxolydian Mode

night driver

Hot tires humming on a hot black road,

Buzzing with the heat and the speed,

Radio bopping to the sound of the beat,

Of a cool myxolydian mode,

Foot to the pedal, and pushing it down,

Shades on the eyes, and some weed,

Taking me places, and faces to see,

The lawyer, the gangster, the clown.

Truck stop blondes winking bloodshot eyes,

Hoping for love and a dime,

Young girls lost in solitude’s keep,

And too many cruel goodbyes.

Boys on the side, too ready to ride,

Smiling too much with the pain,

These tough love maddened refugees,

Hustling the man for their pride,

Houses flash past in uniform rows,

Drenched in the smell of despair,

Of betrayal, and loss, the death of all hope,

Where nothing but bitterness grows.

Hot tires humming on a hot black road

Spinning out rhythm and time,

Reach for the weed, and lose it all for awhile,

In a cool myxolydian mode.

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