Forty miles from the city. Sitting in traffic isn't fun. Crucifix stabbed in soil, to a father from a son. There's ghosts on the highway. I claim. Dancing on the medians. Slamming breaks. I'm forty miles from the city and this is the shit that's in my brain, I need a whim. Something I can get caught up in. I've got to get down to something. If I could sacrifice a little bit, I will. Some of us are drinking coffee, But how the hell could you read a paper. Probably headlines of fuel, While the governments putting all the red tape down. Wake up, I just woke up. The revolution won't be televised, 'cause it's in the morning drive.