Being the latest is capital when you're on television or vinyl, but being befuddled
and all a-muddled, so entrenched in a puddle of your own morning stupor that you go three miles east when half a mile west was the required span,
And in east Dallas, down in the grove you drove and drove
Turning and turning to find your way back to the hackensack street
That you somehow went past in your lack of directional aptitude.
Finally back on track, not intending to slack
but time keeps on slippin', your lid is flippin' thinkin' of how an H street
Can turn into a B avenue in your mind's eye and in your eye's mind, even though you checked it time and another time, thinking it fine.
You can't turn left on the one way H so you make your way
down to another rue name of C, now you really gotta pee
but soldier on you must for in work we trust, even if only to pay the wage.
Cursing advancing age, you go past the churches and carnicerias, old ladies and all the taquerias down rue C until you can go back to the northness of H that you require, thankful not to burst a tire in all this poorly maintained pavement down here in the down part of town.
Finally pulling the waspmobile hybrid riceburner into the pothole pocked spot, you schlep your bulk along at a moderate hustle toward the hunk of metal and glass offering rent on the cheap to schooling institutions, shuffling on the cracked sidewalk where crabgrass grows jungle lush like untrimmed brush through the three inch gaps in grey, past the poorer folk than you on the other side of the street.
Finally you ease yourself through the glass and metal portal, slightly ajar, sign on the line, wave at the receptionist who used to work with you but doesn't anymore onto the elevator, surrounded in brown, taking a deep elevator air breath to brace for saving face when you are the latest, latest, latest one at the meeting.
"Turn it around, baby." -- 4 Strings