Throw what is futile to the back.
I sit where shotgun refused to sit,
Where all the wind blows,
Creating a tornado, so I
Eat my hair and the polluted air.
I sit where I cannot hear the front seat conversation,
I cannot see the laughing or the crying,
Where I can only hear the distant echoes of music, like
He is singing to me from Times Square, but I am in
The black leather blocking my view,
I am restricted to only left and right, like
I see what they already saw,
And it stays tested.
I spy with my little eye...
I am backseat,
No attention is payed, I am
Unheard voice singing the unsung song and I am
Where they refused to sit,
Seat belt locking me in for the ride.