We drove across country, for some crazy reason,
And not to partake in an early Yule season,
Nor swashbuckler-wanderlust-yearning appeasin’—
But it anyway ended a tad bit displeasin’.

Our no-beltway-driving experience showed:
“The traffic was fine, now it seems to be slowed
By a 65-mile-an-hour stone-in-the-road—
An out-of-state driver who needs to be towed!”

When just past Chicago (where those words were spoken)
I thought our speedometer plum must be broken:
In a 55-zone, where cars flew past, wheels smokin’,
It read 70. WHAT?! You have gotta be jokin’!

Finally, “Road Work”—slow down from the 80’s!
But here’s Maria Andretti, in a big, black Mercedes:
She weaves in and out, like a bat out of Hades—
Can you ’splain to me this kind of drivin’, you ladies?!

A truck from the left, and a car from the right,
Each flirtatiously winked with its turn-blinker light—
Then sidled on over, thus squeezing us tight.
A toot on the horn jerked that car back in fright.

The truck, on the other hand, owed to the size-o’-him,
And the fact we’d no sight of the whites of the eyes-o’-him,
We braked and backed off so we wouldn’t get hugs-o’-him—
Which woulda killed all romance of it, due to the lugs-o’-him.

When we finally returned from our cross-country haul
And got back here to home, where’s no beltways at all,
We returned to what’s normal: a relative crawl—
Cuz ya never can tell when we’ll have us a squall.

Yes, we got back to good ol’ Route I-86,
As close to a freeway’s we’ve got in the sticks—
A raceway for all of us West New York hicks,
Who’d rather drive here ’round our OWN lunatics. 

                                                  —Alun Atic Mouse