Walt Whitman Service Area

i sing the throbbing pains of your great nation's bad coffee hot plates keeping the entropy warm all along the turnpikes heroes' names dissected by the moon-like stares of motorists stupified by the concrete glare i sing the car electric may it render your oil wars useless though to be truthful walt these you never did envisage may the worn hands of peace close together over industries as the radio's turnpike downs rock us all to a gentle sleep to each of our final rest areas

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