All I need is a clear road and a grip to steer by.
On the fosty night of a road well traveled.
Rubber rubber every where and my tube did shrink
Nor a wispful breath to fill the bottom show
A tired dead, a dreary darth of inflated sense
No more to roll along the final sound the end
Your land I must walk in slump shump clump
Tire worn and weary song a weary man
My head is down I’m going around.
I’ll meet you in Kingston town