Who cares if you’re driving with a flat tire,
And your rem’s shooting sparks out,
And you’re fearing they’re gonna land on your chin,
And burn your goatee off,
Until it matches the ash in your heart?

Who cares if you’re driving a 422 block diesel engine,
That costs five bucks a mile to drive,
And gets even worse gas mileage than your soul,
And puts out noxious, black carbon fumes,
That are worse than what’s in your soul?

Who cares if you haven’t had any sleep in 48 hours,
And you’ve got processed pseudoephedrine,
Pumping through your system like they’re no blood,
And no tomorrow,
And no way out?

But despite all those things, you gotta keep on trucking,
Until your truck blows up and launches you airborne,
Cause right over the next hill there’s a gas station,
That fixes flats and pumps diesel for free,
And offers free accommodations for weary wayfarers.

And you might just find that there’s another wayfarer or two,
Waiting for you at the station just over the next hill,
Waiting for your recognition and appreciation,
Waiting for you to feel their love,
Waiting for you to arrive where your heart has always been.

And who cares?
Above all, the man that runs the station,
The old, wise, caring, compassionate man,
Called Love by some, called God by others,
And by either name, the rose he offers is just as refreshing and sweet.

© August 2008 Victor Warren
All Rights Reserved