I'm sitting here in some ten cent view of a postcard's back country road.
I'm out of gas again.
The gauge is broken, and I was too dumb to realize it before now.
There’s nothing to my left, and there’s a row of trees to my right.
I can’t see past my elbow.
It’s too dark for exploring.
What if a bear eats me?
I can’t die tonight.
That’s definitely not an option.
But I don’t want to sit in that car anymore.
It’s filled with smoke and old clothes.
I’ve got too many CDs lying on the seats and strapped to my visor.
I’m tired of all the songs.
I’ve worn out my whole collection.
Fleetwood Mac and Luther Vandross can only do so much for me,
But I don’t want to be eaten by a bear.
That’s still not an option.
Guess I’ll have to shove my big head back in there with Stevie and Luther.
What back road am I on anyway?
How did I end up here?
What sign did I miss?
I’m alone in a broke down car in the middle of nowhere.
No one cares that I’m here. I’m all alone.
And no one would know if I got eaten by a bear.
Maybe I’m a bear.
I’m a liar.
That’s the only truth I’ve told tonight.