Who ran the sound for yesterday? A cataclysmic flash of bells and horns, a semi crashing at the bend near exit 206. You tweaked the squeals to match the pitch of 60 tons of cold steel twisting. I remember every gravel shrapnel crack and snap, and every single head it smashed in. Yet who am I but a raving hypocrite? I cry, "don't do that! Don't do it, dont do it." You still stuck your head deep into a scorpion's nest. Well, let this sting remind you that I'm beside you, even in death. Right, who am I but a rampart of regrets? Why cry, "don't do it!" When I'd be the first one to do it? I watched your sideview-mirror split into a thousand glassy pieces, like the sparkly spray from sneezing in the sunlight. All along I wanted to believe you when you said you found a secret shortcut. A spider-web like music staff crawled across your safety glass. Drops of blood made quarter notes as they plummeted from the overpass. Bucket-seats now milky pools splashed in gasoline with a scum of ash. And I wanted to believe you, yet I only say, "Use a hubcap as a plate. I told you so. Now go, clean off your plate! How much more glass can you eat?"