I drive a pick-up, matte black and rusted
I call the Dreamer. It’ll run busted
To the commerce tower at 7 A.M, just before the bankers get in,
And they laugh at the Dreamer from their hybrids and their Beamers
Knowing I’ve got the money for a new car, cleaner, a so-called upgrade,
But it doesn’t matter how much I get paid,
That truck’s all I have left of the past,
The only part of me that will ever last.

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