That word
The MVP of so many great pop songs
It caputres the freewheeling immediacy
Inhibition and mystique
That a good high will provide
Or at least the promise of one

For three and a half minutes
The world turns its collective attention
To you
Screaming into the void
Bleachers line the shoulders
In the highways of your mind
As you recklessly speed by
Bathed in the humid neon glow
Of a perfect summer eve

Some feel the need to tack the word
Onto their pleasure, feeling unclean
Well, I feel bad for you son
I’ve got 99 problems
But tomorrow ain’t one