Growin' More Bile

I'm drivin' home;
I've got the rage of the road—
I'm growin' more bile.
My damn cell phone is on "roam,"
Got a misaligned wheel
Growin' more bile—
Keep reprovin'.
I don't think that I can curb
This growing rage of the road—
Growin' more bile.
I can't stop the prickly heat
That extends from my head to feet—
Growin' more bile.
Keep reprovin'.
Shout—yeah, I should,
But who'd take pity?
They'd probably blame me.
What is drivin' me?
Testosterone:
Friend of more bile.
F*uck you! You creep,
With the sound machine
That makes my ears scream,
Sending more bile
To swell thoughts in my head,
Like, I wish that guy were dead.
Growin' more bile.
Keep reprovin'.
My hand's liftin'—
Still reprovin'—
Up to the stick, shiftin'.
Gonna move now!
Movin'!
To commute lane, yeah!
I keep movin', movin' movin' movin', movin', movin', yeah!
Less bile, less bile, less bile, less bile.
Didn't care 'bout citations
Dared myself that I could slip free
Through this congestion.
Sh*t! The highway policeman just got me!
Much more bile!
More bile, more bile; court file court file. . . .