The Corrugated Box

[Verse 1](Music starts with a dry, muted acoustic guitar strumming like a ticking clock)The fluorescent hum under bay fourteen is a low-grade migraine.Craig's got his clipboard clipped to his hip like a plastic gun.My thumbs are gray from the ink on the inventory sheets.Another pallet of zinc washers, thirty pounds a box.(A soft, melodic electric guitar line creeps in, sounding lonely)I keep a folded map of New Mexico in my left boot.It’s wearing thin at the creases, dissolving in my sweat.[Chorus](The rhythm section kicks in—steady, driving bass, mimicking highway lines)But there’s a cold wind blowing through the gaps in the dock doors.And a full tank of gas waiting out in the gravel lot.They own my spine from eight to five, they buy my aching knees.But they can't punch a timecard through the center of my dreams.Yeah, they can’t trap the highway in a corrugated box.[Verse 2](The music drops back down, but the drums keep a steady, train-like beat)The breakroom radio is missing its volume knob.Stuck playing old car commercials and the noon-day farm report.I look at my hands, they look just like my father’s did at forty.Calloused at the knuckles, stained with grease that never fades.(The electric guitar grows slightly more distorted, tense)Craig asks me if I’m staying for the mandatory overtime.I look right through his forehead and I tell him that I’m sick.[Chorus](Full band enters, big and expansive, wide open sound)'Cause there’s a cold wind blowing through the gaps in the dock doors.And a full tank of gas waiting out in the gravel lot.They own my spine from eight to five, they buy my aching knees.But they can't punch a timecard through the center of my dreams.Yeah, they can’t trap the highway in a corrugated box.[Bridge](The music slows down, spacious and echoing, like driving through a desert at night)I don’t need a palace, I don't need a golden watch.Just want to see the horizon change its color without a ceiling in the way.Just want to hear the engine hum instead of the assembly line.One of these midnights, the taillights won't come back.[Guitar Solo](An expressive, unpolished solo that starts frustrated and opens up into something triumphant and soaring)