There's chalk on my legs
Covering the bumps
Urban radio
Wind whistling through our hair
Like a hand out the window in the wind
We're there; we're here
Golden horizon
Vert hills rising and falling
The pavement fading
Our lungs singing
She's got her hands on the wheel of the boat
I've got my hands on the leather of the passenger seat
Wide turns on the roads of this small town
Laughing
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