I want to take my backpack and go to Aberdeen
Only my backpack with a toothbrush and Kerouac's tears
He also craved for an unwinding highway, oh rocky road so green
He mourned for the lame rhymes and homicidal affaires
But his bitterest sobs were for me
He lived with the prophecy of me being violated on the road
He saw my bitten nails and inky fingertips and a broken knee
It was a car accident, four Indians killed. No mercy bestowed
On them, on me, on my eyes - I cried so hard my pupils turned grey
I vomited my prays to god, so in contrast
poems on the tip of my tongue had rotten taste that day.
Death invited me for the breakfast
His voice and bacon were thoroughly smoked
We ate boiled eggs
That Kerouac of my dreams choked:
rhymes got stuck in his throat. They were savage. They were dregs.