Throw what is futile to the back. I sit where shotgun refused to sit, Where all the wind blows, Creating a tornado, so I Eat my hair and the polluted air. I sit where I cannot hear the front seat conversation, I cannot see the laughing or the crying, Where I can only hear the distant echoes of music, like He is singing to me from Times Square, but I am in Harlem. The black leather blocking my view, I am restricted to only left and right, like Solitary confinement, I see what they already saw, And it stays tested. I spy with my little eye... Nevermind. I am backseat, No attention is payed, I am Unheard voice singing the unsung song and I am Where they refused to sit, Seat belt locking me in for the ride.