They pack in like sinners on a midnight pilgrimage, Eyes wide, grins jagged—teeth against the dark. The rooftop load sways with silent chaos, A tower of bad decisions wrapped in neon mist. The air smells of gasoline, sweat, and something stolen, And the headlights carve their way through nothing. Someone laughs too hard, Another stares through the glass like it’s holding secrets. This isn’t freedom—it’s a prison on wheels, But the radio hums the soundtrack of escape. One last charge into oblivion, Before the sirens catch up with the night.