So, there we were,
The three of us, thoroughly crammed in
And over-cooked in the cab of the old Mack,
A covered roasting pan
Situated dead center and ground zero
in the spacious, atmospheric oven of late August.
Yessir, there we were;
Me, Jimmy T. and the Old Man
Is GODDAMNIN and SHITTIN
And the truck is actin up,
Givin us nothin but grief.
Probly the transmission
Is refusin to transmit, Im thinking,
To complete the circuit,
To accept the Official General Motors
Junior Executive Pass Key
To the compost heap on the far side
Of the south field.
So, like I says, there we were,
Three surly Kansas crackers
Thatre just about to crack,
Trapped at the helm of a beat-up,
Burnt-out cargo ship full of cowshit,
Horseshit, grass clippings and kitchen scraps.
And the sun is firin down.
And the air is burnin up.
And the ol Capn is boilin over:
FIFteen fuckin years,
fifteen fuckin years,
fifteen MOTHERFUCKIN YEARS
and then KABLAM!!!
The whole tweaked-out scenario
Blows wide open and then just sorta
So here we are, me, Jimmy T.
And the Old Man is dreamin and hummin
And drummin out a slow shuffle of a beat.
Bellies and big belt buckles
Are officially to the bar down here
At The Blue Lounge and were in over our heads
In another pitcher of PBR.
After what seems like a lifetime, it comes,
From the dark side of a looming
Harvest moon of silence,
Through the stellar gleam of a far away eye,
Out from under a foamy moustache
"sometimes you just gotta walk away, boys,
sometimes you just gotta walk away."
-Jason Ryberg, 2010