An ode to that sacred family tradition: the road trip.
One wants to eat.
One wants to shit.
One wants to play his favourite music.
One keeps talking down,
one keeps cracking up,
one tight-lipped and fuming,
one is driving, on a mission,
one is pretending not to be there,
praying for a head-on collision,
chewing a lock of hair.
One is discussing money matters,
one has some serious cash flow issues,
one lost weight, one got fat,
one’s got a whiskey bottle in his backpack,
one’s on anti-depressants, one is sky high,
and one has earphones in deep,
no idea what the hell is going on.
One wants the air-con,
one wants the heat,
one wants to know if we are there yet.
One wants to just pull the fucking handbrake,
walk out and off a cliff.
Then someone farts. It’s a bad one.
Rancid, like road kill on a hot day.
Someone smirks, someone laughs,
someone coins a new curse word,
and everyone rolls down the windows.
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