Cars are made, men are born,
Which is why we run on empty
While cars roll to a stop
On the sides of roads less seen,
Blessed in being able to break.
For flesh does not break, though
It bends, sags, slowly decays to prove
We will all reach the town
Of past our primes. Pick your car
And pick your partner, please
Yourself whatever way you need,
Avoid me if you choose, we’ll
All end up with broken dreams
And broken bones, limping
Into town at the same time.
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