I catch up to your face in Nashville.
I sit on the off-ramp for hours.
My shoes fit the bill,
yet I fear to speak the globe's guffaw.
I put Willie Nelson at the helm
and coast the rest of the way
to your coronation.
You will run a dark and dusty outfit.
I will be one of your subjects,
secluded in the starlight express.
Address your play list to the fallen angels
of this regime's catastrophe.
Fill their boots with dust
that they might know irritation.