Coming back from Peter's

This is Apollo's cart when it disappears under the horizon
A sled taking us through darkened streets
An electronic voice chiming out the names
A dozen club kids bombed out of their minds

At 2:45 a.m. the streets are slush, the driver's in shorts,
Dispassionate, holds no grimace or grin, and
Bears the bier with the kids in repose
Slumped deep in their seats