Headed home on Friday's sweet breath
Reacquainting my legs to spinning gold.
Suffering for others is passion's quick death
You can't always do as you're told.
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We stopped at that oracle of high Chicago-style
Don't ask for ketchup, not even a dab
I hope somebody told those four New Yorkers
Who rode up from downtown in a taxi cab.
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My stumbling fingers just get in the way
That voodoo is best left for someone else
Yet it will do to get me through the day
And up those hills to find my pulse.
My faltering focus was broken by insistence
And it lured me out for some tangy jokes
I wanted more than just a sip of that sense,
But that could wait for my sweat on my spokes.
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