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No trophy, no flowers, no flashbulbs, no wine, He's haunted by something he cannot define.
Bowel-shaking earthquakes of doubt and remorse, Assail him, impale him with monster-truck force.
In his mind, he's still driving, still making the grade. She's hoping in time that her memories will fade.
Cause he's racing and pacing and plotting the course, He's fighting and biting and riding on his horse.
The sun has gone down and the moon has come up, And long ago somebody left with the cup.
But he's striving and driving and hugging the turns.
And thinking of someone for whom he still burns.
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