by Jay Levon
I watch an old truck go
down the highway.
It's strapped to a shaky flatbead trailer,
an old Chevy, maybe a '49 or '50.
Is it heading to a restorers garage
to be lovingly tweaked and massaged?
Will it be pushed until it reaches potential?
I am filled with envy.
I wish someone would save me from the crusher,
and scrape away my rust and faded paint.
Give me new purpose and pride,
and take me cruising on a Saturday night.
I could be a steel sculpture
on rubber wheels
(sleek, shiny, and mean)
with a big block heart.
It's strapped to a shaky flatbead trailer,
an old Chevy, maybe a '49 or '50.
Is it heading to a restorers garage
to be lovingly tweaked and massaged?
Will it be pushed until it reaches potential?
I am filled with envy.
I wish someone would save me from the crusher,
and scrape away my rust and faded paint.
Give me new purpose and pride,
and take me cruising on a Saturday night.
I could be a steel sculpture
on rubber wheels
(sleek, shiny, and mean)
with a big block heart.
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