The Subar-Dude Rides

In some ways we are different, and some we’re the same,

I prefer hacky sack, while bowling’s his game.

He likes his rug, to cover his floor,

And I can still open, my driver’s side door.

Not been caught up, in mistaken ID,

MY rug is clean, no stains, no pee.

He likes white Russians and occasional brew,

I’m a chai-drinking-new-ager, ain’t nothin’ new.

I’d never drop a roach and burn up my crotch,

Not in my ride, not on my watch.

No German nihilists have burnt up my cars,

Don’t talk to cowboys, in bowling alley bars.

Not been trashed, by Malibu’s top cop,

Never let Walter drive, while making the drop.

I know where I’m going, and where I have been,

I’ve no clue what condition his condition is in.

The dude is a slacker, no job and career,

This is where we’re similar, an understandable fear.

We’re both the one cruising, about in our car,

Jammin’ it loudly to ol’ CCR.

We share the dude’s style, sunglasses, and hair,

Ask Jeff Bridges, go ahead if you dare.

I aspire to dudeness with mystery and intrigue,

SHUT the FK UP Donny, you are out of your league.

I’ve traveled this country, driven many a-rides,

I’m an all-wheel cruiser, the Subar-Dude Abides.