At the crack of dawn, we started on the road,
left the GPS at home,
all my music, and your phone.
You said, “Hey, that’s okay—
hell, we planned the trip that way,”
as you got off four signs late.
(Another three days at this rate.)
You couldn’t find the on-ramp,
I did not know what to do—
you without a prayer, my friend,
and me without a clue.
I took the wheel and yelled till I was hoarse,
then pushed ahead with force
some fifty miles off-course.
So we turned back toward our fate:
bedlam on the interstate,
on the right path, more or less.
(Pretty sure this must be west.)
The sun dropped to the clouds
with no hotels anywhere,
you without a clue, my friend,
and me without a prayer.
The next day, back on route
till the front right tire blew out.
“Not only don’t we have a prayer,”
I said, “we also have no spare.”
You were pissed as hell at me
and I’d had enough of you—
you without a prayer, my friend,
and me without a clue.
Eventually, we got back on some kind of pace,
and I said, “Might as well be trapped with Chevy Chase.”
You glanced outside the windowpane
and then started to laugh.
I didn’t see the joke at first,
but the trees still flew on past,
and that’s when I figured out that we’re still getting there—
just nowhere fast.
It was late on the second day
when the maelstrom turned our way—
the sign said sixty miles to go.
I said, “Hey, look”; you said, “I know.”
It was eight or nine to ten
and I was half a mile to dead
when we pulled into the lot
and the car came to a stop.
You clicked the engine off
and said, “We did it, me and you—
you without a prayer, my friend,
you without a prayer, my friend,
you without a prayer, my friend,
and me without a clue.”
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