Highway 17

Cruising down Highway 17, the authorities now heavily influenced by my existence, tailing us, onto our smell, they are aware of my every move five seconds before I make it, leaves me no choice but to do the obvious, drive faster, trouble is their pedal is heavier than my metal, means they'll have brought me down to their station before nightfall, no reason to flee, still I, restless, decisionless, pride anyway, keep the foot floored, as if praying with my feet, hoping for some angel of speed to somehow prefer me to them, maybe because I've got some funk they haven't got, some jive, some cool rhythm, or maybe simply because I'm thinking this, or maybe not: yes, probably it will just end the way it does, with a skake of repentance.