The New Jersey Turnpike is not some great beast

it is a slow and winding night
it is hours
it is low-song
it is hours
it is gettin' it on

New Jersey itself is the devil
we were born on the cusp of its toxic air
we are the sick-stars passing
we are the already-tomorrow
and everyone is getting' it on
oh, be so wrong
the murder beckons
how could I be so wrong?

And I am five-hour-dreaming
about sad rich girls and faceless men
and open top cars
and they are gettin' it on
and I am gettin' it on

The turnpike is the adversary and
New Haven is my Michael
Yale is my ugly bed I cannot wait to leave
and the road ahead is all my prayers:
dismissed with an eyeroll
then whispered again
a part of it was always dead

it is easy to do
it is easy to do
it is hours
and one long swerve
and one tired tap
and we die, too

It is the forests we call back to
and I am dreaming still
of gettin' it on
and the people who do
wanting to die
but, not
wanting to drive forever
but, can't–

–and you snore and I'm happy because it means you're finally asleep