Roadkill 50

Durp, durp... durpy fucking deer
dancing your doe eyes in front of me.
Driving your evil intentions into my beams. I
read your cherry tea leaves and screams--
"Drift into the other lane... Swerve!"
It's persuasive, Miss, but I'm not as naive
as my eyes are jaundiced.

Yellow jackets are my friends; the sting
of love transcends my rubberneckéd bends
upon this steel-threaded thrill ride.
Flick caution 'roadwork' signs to the wind.
Man, I'd kill your whole family for a Miller,
that's right, motherfucker, you'll never win!
You're a stupid... fucking... deer! (HONK)

...Yeah, go ahead and gawk, Bambi.
Balk and cast those cowardly scowls
as far as you can throw 'em;
show your kids full-send how "angels"
can descend as I put on my roller-skates
and give PETA another creature to talk about.
No animals will be harmed in the next poem.

I've always hated Route 50 this time of year.
Why can't they get road-service out
to clear the snow and debris? IDIOT,
learn how to steer! 10-7 saltshakers
trying to make me hit a 7-10 split...
outskirts of Eugene should be
around here-- SHIT!

(I stalk bright lights and mock
those who bare the cross-walks.
I blaspheme the dusk and dawn sunbeams
and pluck from the head of the flock.
I am the demon that pervades the
last minute minds of truckers...
I am The Nighthawk.)