Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Dec 22, 2009 12:12:20 GMT -5
Wingless Angels Near Sunset
I used to say, while driving Hollywood,
The 101 has every demographic:
The beauties—more concerned with looking good
Than worrying about the backed-up traffic;
The surfers—still so mellow when they drove;
The rappers and the rockers—they would blast
Woofers and tweeters as they honked and wove
Like demons with a soundtrack when they passed.
The nouveau riche—displayed in garish toys
Amid the older models past their primes
(Those ancient cars that belched and bellowed noise
Like dinosaurs from prehistoric times).
The limousines would seem to stretch for years;
The pimped-up rides had chromed-out, spinning spokes,
And rear-view mirrors decked with chandeliers.
The stoners rode in groups while sharing tokes.
I’d sit in gridlock, static, looking round,
Peering at others through surreal exhaust,
Thinking, I wonder where you all are bound,
And why? Am I the only one who’s lost?
I used to say, while driving Hollywood,
The 101 has every demographic:
The beauties—more concerned with looking good
Than worrying about the backed-up traffic;
The surfers—still so mellow when they drove;
The rappers and the rockers—they would blast
Woofers and tweeters as they honked and wove
Like demons with a soundtrack when they passed.
The nouveau riche—displayed in garish toys
Amid the older models past their primes
(Those ancient cars that belched and bellowed noise
Like dinosaurs from prehistoric times).
The limousines would seem to stretch for years;
The pimped-up rides had chromed-out, spinning spokes,
And rear-view mirrors decked with chandeliers.
The stoners rode in groups while sharing tokes.
I’d sit in gridlock, static, looking round,
Peering at others through surreal exhaust,
Thinking, I wonder where you all are bound,
And why? Am I the only one who’s lost?
