Eleven o’clock in the dead of the night:
There’s many a short-order beacon in sight,
But scarcely a headlight, like LA film noir,
Has pierced the tranquility here in my car.
Daft Punk sets the tempo I feel as I ride;
Egg-bacon taquito sits close at my side—
O paramour porcine! O egg in my face!
I’ve truly Got Lucky when thee I embrace!
The joy that envelops my self, and I it,
The unpeopled city which darkness has lit
In contrast combine to some new form of bliss:
The joy of the night-owl trav’ller is this.
