Morning; 70 West

There's something about speeding,
Through fog at a Hundred miles an hour.
A thrill of suspense feeding,
One's perverse sense of power.
Is the road clear?
Is it packed with cars?
Will I brake in time?
Will I hit a bear or deer?
These things I wonder,
As the pea soup fog swallows me,
While I hear my engine thunder,
Knowing why I speed, why I fly,
She awaits me there at home ,
She with honeyed voice and long sigh,
So my thrill comes with the dawn,
Releasing me from anights work,
To race ahead on and on,
Through the fog,
Through the mist,
To my Home!