Uncle Wally puts on his sunglasses,
lowers his power window and raises his power seat,
and pressing the pedal he glides, he floats,
over the hills and through the little towns
of what used to be his territory.
He still knows all the soda jerks by name,
all the waitresses in all the cafes
where he used to sit and shoot the breeze.
Every Rexall rushes by like a line in his ledger.
Uncle Wally glides through the country,
singing as he crests the hills, leaning back and singing,
the wind skipping off the fins of his Buick.
And the fields flow by and the land gives way,
it opens up, as far as the eye can see.