Let's hit the interstate.
With a call sign like that, girl, you'll never want to return.
Let's pull over all the silencers we find, and put them in
a locked un-American standard.
A hurtling ball across the freeway midline:
"I didn't mean to wreck your van, man.
I only want to take it to the center of the Marshall Plan."
I want to drive.
I want to pilot,
and put it down.
Let's put the state in a lockdown crisis.
I'm over wheels now.
My eyes were never gouged.
They were injured.
New York state!
The DMV cries.
Where's your pile of illegal telescopics to abuse?
If Fresnel ever lived, he'd approve.
What else did he live for?
But wait- he loved, just like anyone else!
He had a heart, and a stomach, and a knee, and a blinker,
and his own soul tripod.
The turnpike's one lane in Agony Court.
A longitudinal wave impacts your fort.
But Fresnel, my good man, you've done much for our time.
The world's undersea links, and the internet.
And I drive.