It’s a traffic jam in a tunnel,
A tunnel under a hill with a church
Perched in the clouds,
And our radio reception is gone.
Our speakers are all static,
Our minds left to think about
Bumper stickers of the car ahead,
The car going nowhere fast.
Christian puppets giving a show
In the rearview mirror,
Their handlers in all black,
Trying to unite their doppelgangers.
Everyone in on a suicide pact,
Meeting with the devil in his lair
Who’s only vapors, cold as cement,
Leaky as a crypt. And the crows
In hardhats, miners headlights,
Black lung and hay fever,
To lead us out, squawking
And picking our brains.
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