The car rattles through the neon abyss, Packed tight with painted faces and howls. A twisted parade of glee and menace, Their grins smeared red— Part carnival, part war cry. Eyes gleam wild in the fractured light, As if they’ve just seen the punchline to the apocalypse. Hands slap the dash, knuckles bloody from the joke, While the engine churns— Fuelled by madness and bad intentions. There’s no destination here, only the ride: A rusted bullet hurtling toward oblivion, With clowns at the wheel And chaos riding shotgun.