Warm me up, I’ll take one for the road, hope I don’t go and sleep through the day. I dry heave in quiet, take a shit on the clock. Wish my hangover headaches away. Last night around 2:20 in snow we were credible soaks, so regrettable. But when those dead December blues dull our brains while the cold is creeping through, Midwest in jest we favor friendly bars and fools. They don’t plow the ghetto. We’re nowhere near home. They don’t plow the ghetto. We’ll die on these roads. One of us driving but behind the wheel is a few too many settled up on their bill. Breathing in I’m going home. Blacking out I’m going home.