Our father, who art in asphalt, Highway be thy name.
Thy rest stop come, thy speed limit be done.
In this state as in the next.
Give us this day our daily feul,
And forgive us our logbooks,
As we forgive four-wheelers that scamper amongst us.
And lead us not into the speed trap,
But deliver us from Smokey.
For thine is the interstate, the turnpike, and the access road.
By Me, about 5 years ago.
mood: positively ferretish in my bouncyness
music: the front door closing behind me.