The black cars are already on their way
I can hear tires screeching in the distance
Staying tight in the corners and dead sticking the gears
This one is driven by your friend’s mom
High on gin and tonics, the way she looked back in the day
When she still had a sense of humor and a great ass
That one is driven by your first girlfriend’s father
Looking like he’d just as soon kill you as breathe
I would not climb in if I were you
There’s one driven by cancer, that son-of-a-bitch
The interior filled with nicotine as a bony finger points
At the No Smoking sign with a tight fucking smile
Do me a favor and call the dispatcher back
Cancel my ride if it’s not too late
I think I would rather walk the miles that I have left
Photo/Ray Larsen
Román Leão 
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