I pulled over for a feedbag.
I thought of you, it wasn't bad.
You had direction and drive,
and you arrived at closing time,
to find they wiped down the bar.
And they built you a bed,
laid your head to rest and left you tried and true again.
You may be proud, man,as it was always wishful thought.
I would imagine you off, maybe I'd see you again.
We could sit down and have a moment
to talk about your suicide.
And I would put away your death
if you could put away the dope.
And all our enemies,
well there's no time for you to know them
and their crooked mind disease,
but hopeless fools, they will be missing you.
I pulled over for nostalgia.
I thought of suffering the joke.
No one delivered the punchline,
no resolution is here.
I couldn't sharpen the view,
and it's still drawn to you.
Waiting on the new but then this story
has no end, as we continue driving.

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