The Dashboard Professional

Silently auctioned and set to a hefty price

Fifteen hundred dollars and you think it’d look nice

Kenwood stereos and our favorite vice, ice

I thought the whole thing was fake

and you thought they were nice

Playful behind plain eyes and a cold smile

A hundred and eighty fucking thousand miles

With an unlit cigarette and a stale smell

I thought half the time I was “chilling” in hell

Against the grain and just as surely against my will

In a sepatateness that dwells, lingers and repels

“What was wrong with it?”, and I wondered

Well I couldnt really tell?

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