There was a dead dog on the highway,
didn't you see it?

My eyelids,
weakening with weights
of whiskey and heartache
drag me across countries,
and borders and states.
But never any solace
can be found
knowing that I will end up back here
if I run and I run
because the world is too round.
I'm sick of this highway
and I'm tired of the smell
of the death on the gravel
and having no-one to tell
that
there was a dead dog on the highway.

Didn't you see it?