The Gas Station Saga Lyrics

Well it's Twelve Fifty-three and look here at me

I'm sitting alone in the car

Writing a poem, five miles from home

And wishing that I was in a bar

The fuel pumps are slow; the gas barely flows

I daydream my thoughts are corrupt

There ain't nothing worse than writing gas station verse

And dreaming that I never grew up

In that dream we're both young, and you're flicking your tongue

Back and forth at the nape of my neck

You laugh as I sigh; and it's like I can fly

And there's nothing to keep us in check

We're running through fields and a forest that yields

Fresh maple syrup in June

Soft scented flowers, and the aura of hours

Spent making love neath the moon

Whoa, oh, oh, I'm choking on my unworthiness

Whoa, oh, oh, I can almost feel your white hot breath

Whoa, oh, oh, it's like I'm traveling back in time

To a memory divine

When we were fine

My fantasy warms in perilous forms

Too fiery to try to describe

In the heat of the day, we are both swept away

And we drown in some magical vibe

Now it's Twelve Fifty-nine and I've got invisible wine

On my lips from a chalice or cup

I'm jolted awake by a perilous shake

When my tank overflows and blows up

Whoa, oh, oh, I'm choking on my unworthiness

Whoa, oh, oh, I can almost feel your white hot breath

Whoa, oh, oh, it's like I'm traveling back in time

To a memory divine

When we were fine

Now it's past one o-three and look here at me

I'm still sitting alone in my car

Writing a poem five miles from home

And wishing that I was in a bar

Oh yes, I'm wishing that I was in a bar