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The Cult of the Interstate

by Richard Haxton

He leaves his home where there’s no tomorrow
A little bit afraid of just what he’ll find
He’s alone on the trail of sorrow
Leaving all he knows behind

So he moves to where no soul goes slowly
Except for the moment when it’s too late
It’s a place so secure and holy
It’s the middle of the Interstate

He stretches out and collects his thoughts
On the banks of the river of rubber and steel
He’s safe from the other side’s madness
Protected by the angels at the wheel

He has a plan. He’s gonna tell everybody
And he knows in his heart that he can make them see
That everyone can love one another
It’s a land of possibility

He’ll let ’em know that anybody’s welcome
But when you try to cross you tempt the hand of fate
Only the brave and the true are gonna make it
In the cult of the Interstate

And in his carbon monoxide dreams he see himself as an old oak tree
In the beautiful glow of the low flying beams when the children gather round his knee
He just hopes it’s not too late