I'd like to be a good American and write an elegy to the automobile
But no matter where it takes me I don't really feel any different
I got one foot in the black and white two dimensional ghosts of Lithuania
And the other foot in sunny California where the people are all friendly
As they drive their Mercedes to the mini-malls and take a lunch
Or network with you or drive past and kill you for no reason
These are my ghosts: Uncle Emmanuel, Uncle Eli, Aunt Mia
And my grandparents, Jenny and Tobias, none of whom I've ever met
I saw some letters once that they wrote to my dad in Palestine in 1940
Not too long before they all were shot
My only link to them is my dad, he knew them, he knew me, now he's gone too
Sometimes I want to get next to them, sometimes I want to drive them all away
Say: You're not my ghosts, I live in Sunny California, I drive a 1992 Red Chevrolet
I drive fast, and I drive as far west as anyone can drive
Eight thousand miles from Lithuania and if I could escape
By driving further then I would, but it doesn't get me anyplace new
I guess if I was a true American, I could write an elegy to the automobile
But when I jump in it doesn't get me any place different
Sometimes I want to dance on Hitler's grave
And shout out: Groucho Marx, Lenny Bruce, Leonard Cohen, Philip Roth,
Bob Dylan, Albert Einstein, Leonard Bernstein, Harry Houdini, Sandy Kofax!
And then I want to sing as loud as I can
Watch the chandeliers sway dangerously overhead
Proclaiming Kristalnacht is over
I say Kristalnacht is over! The only broken glass tonight
Will be from wedding glasses shattered under boot heels
We're not the ones in the museum, its you,
Your curious mustache and your chamber of horrors
I've a friend my age whose parents met in Auschwitz on the Day of Liberation
She lives in San Francisco, a good job, just moved into a new house
I've a friend who lies in her hospital bed
After fifteen operations from a botched a
