Singing at the top of my lungs.
Roll down the window and watch the sun set.
83 through the trees.
I hope this rode never ends.
It gets bumpy at times but I know it'll get smooth again.
'tumble weeds, praire dogs...yeah'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
love driving with the roof open, windows down and radio blasting. you make me want to drive to sante fe