I was riding shotgun with my hair undone.
In the front seat of his motorcar.
He's got a one-hand feel on the steering wheel.
The other on my heart.
.
I peep around, turn the radio down.
He says, Baby is something wrong.
I say, Nothing I was just thinking.
How we don't have a song and he says.
.
Our song is the slamming screen door.
Sneakin' elsewhere late, tapping on your window.
When we're on the ring and you talk authentic slow.
'Cause it's late and your mama don't know.