The Car

Your grandfather’s guitar
Thinkin’ about how funny I must look
Tryin’ to adjust to what’s been there all along
With the boat kiosk lady and her sleepy amigos

But it ain’t a holiday until
You go to fetch somethin’ from the car

Travel size champagne cork pops
And we’re sweepin’ for bugs
In some dusty apartment, the what’s-it-called café
You can arrive at eleven and have lunch with the English

But it ain’t a holiday until
They force you to make a wish
They say, “climb up this”
And “jump off that”
And you pretend to fall asleep on the way back

No, it ain’t a holiday until
You go up to fetch somethin’ from the car