The good times are gone
and we must drive on.
But how will those pale ribbons feed us?
Where will we go?
and how do we know where these aimless wheels will lead us?
Not to some luscious and heavenly place
draped with the future in luminous lace,
where overtime flows on the sparkling Ford stream,
and windscreens are scaled to the cinema screen;
but back to our thoughtless and futureless cause,
back to our colorless, laborless thoughts,
where the treads of our tires turn to shreds with each mile
and our mirror in shards frames the boss's last smile.
Tossed on the winds of the night's leaded beams
we roll on the ribbons of our dreams.