Racing back to Waterloo in summer torrents of rain and rage;
and this speed, they say, can make you feel so free.
The sun is caught by thunderclouds—got these silver shades,
got this music loud—and highway eighty-six is lost on me...
And I’m passing cars with headlamps flashing,
feeling like the roof is crashing through—
on me and you
Are you free to thirst even while you’re drinking,
free to lie even while you tell the truth?
Can fools’ gold turn to pure gold
if you want it to?
The golden sun, it reappears; the single-file, it pushes on:
and this snaking chrome is startled by a dust-cloud and a
hundred beating hooves and horse-drawn carriages—
black as history’s ink on gilded pages—
fresh-scrubbed faces on a quiet Sunday afternoon...
And car horns are cruel and highbeams rude,
and I’m feeling like the sky is crashing through—
on me and you
And the dashboard’s shouting, “My Sharona”
as a line as long as Pennsylvania is
singing hymns to Jesus in the middle of June
Can fools’ gold turn to pure gold
if you want it to?
And a man in black, with a sideways glance,
is smiling at these souls just passing through.
I see his daughter’s honey-yellow hair
and I could swear it’s really you...
Can fools’ gold turn to pure gold
if you want it to?
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