Volkswagon Rabbit

My Volkswagon rabbit is weaving steadily down I-69. I thought I had my keys, but I lost ‘em. No wait, there they are. Damn, sun keeps gettin’ in my eyes. Thought I had my shades, but I lost ‘em. No, wait, there they are on my head. Floris always said that. Called me that word. “Nincompoop.” No one says that word anymore. I think I heard my Aunt Gladys maybe say it once about one of her knee doctors.

My Volkrabbit wagon is skidding along the asphalt. I left the airport with all four tires. Now sparks are zipping up the windshield. We thought we had all four, but we lost one. Floris bitchin’ over the radio, “Don’t let me down!”. I slap my knee and punch a hole through the top of my convertible. Born to be fuckin’ wild.

My Wagon is a rabbit, and I’m hiding in a hole. The rabbit is on fire. Floris flying overhead in a little white pill with tin foil wings. “Hey! Nincompoop!” Can still hear her even with the blood in my ear. Goddamn sun in my eyes. “You blew it!”