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A yellow cab made it's ponderous progress through the bleak detritus of urban night.

Some years ago, I was sent to help the local police department of a small mountain town investigate a series of missing children. It was mostly a matter of me coming to terms with my own demons while alone in my motel room. Those nights contrasted starkly with the liveliness and interactions with the townsfolk during the daytime.

"One stop left" he thought "one more stop and I get to go home." Little did Jimmy know at the time that nothing could be further from the truth. There was a chill in the air, and fog. The kind of fog that seems to eat the light right from the lenses of your headlights. He didn't mind the cold, but something about that fog made him very uncomfortable. "Almost there" he thought, "Almost th-"...

It was a dark stormy night...

In Hicksville, NY, where the nights are so bold,
A storm raged on, with a darkness to unfold.
A crippled man sat, with a sober little face,
Reminding me of Nixon, what a peculiar place.

His lack of inebriation sparked a wicked delight,
I shoved him out of my Krispy Kreme truck with all my might.
We were cruisin' at 97, the wind it did howl,
As he rolled down the road, with a legless little roll.

Half a mile he tumbled, like a doughnut in flight,
A sweet, sweet revenge, for that Nixon-like sight.
I watched in my rearview, with a chuckle so sly,
Thinking "that's what you get" for being sober and dry.

Now my Krispy Kreme truck's got a story to tell,
Of a crippled man's wild ride, and a Nixon-like farewell.
And if you ever find yourself, in Hicksville on a dark night,
Just remember, don't be sober, or you'll take flight!

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