Fast lane going slow

Gulf Coast Cowboy Radio—

Seattle, move.

Twelve hours in, finally done, I’m clockin’ out,

Badge beep, keys clink—yeah, I’m pullin’ out.

Fire up the truck, feel the motor talk back,

Tryna decompress, but the city won’t relax.

Ramp to the lane and it’s brake lights, red,

Everybody spooky on the same old bend.

They tap-tap brakes like the road got teeth,

I’m jaw tight, stare stuck, hands at ten and three.

Blinker means “mine,” that’s the new rule now,

Tesla slide over like “you’ll figure it out.”

I’m dodgin’ dumb moves, carryin’ my day,

Tryna get home, not get pulled into a wreck on the way.

I’m up to second—nah, back to first,

Up to second—nah, back to first,

Can’t find the pace, it’s the same damn curve,

Everybody stoppin’ for nothin’—that’s what burns.

Fast lane, goin’ slow—what you brake like that for?

Move that, move that—quit guardin’ the fast like it’s yours.

Seattle rain in my brain, I’m talkin’ like I might snap,

Breathe back, breathe back—hands locked, I ain’t tryna crash.

Clear lane, clear mind—let me see some space,

Eighty on the dash, I’m just tryna make it home safe.

Sun down, headlights cut a clean white line,

Radio thump, let the bass unwind.

Then it bunch right up—same spot, same song,

Two miles an hour, then it’s gone-gone-gone.

And that’s the part that’ll make you go insane:

Nothin’ happened… just folks afraid of a lane.

If cops really wanted traffic to breathe,

Pull the slow ones sittin’ left and playin’ police.

I ain’t tryna race, I’m just tired and beat,

Tryna get to my driveway, shoes off, finally eat.

So I let ’em be weird, let ’em camp, let ’em creep,

Soon as it opens up, I’m gone—smooth and clean.

Up to second—nah, back to first,

Up to second—nah, back to first,

Same old choke, same old curse,

Freeway full of “main character” nerves.

Fast lane, goin’ slow—what you brake like that for?

Move that, move that—quit guardin’ the fast like it’s yours.

Seattle rain in my brain, I’m talkin’ like I might snap,

Breathe back, breathe back—hands locked, I ain’t tryna crash.

Clear lane, clear mind—let me see some space,

Eighty on the dash, I’m just tryna make it home safe.

Same bend, same jam, same “nothin” every day…

Seattle, move.