We went for a drive yesterday, up and down Highway 41. What a mess – and it’s not even tourist season.  My wife mentioned something about a song she heard on the radio and thought maybe I could do better. I might just have to collaborate with the neighborhood band – Paradise Pickers.

Highway 41 Blues

Stop and go,
Construction cones.
Distracted drivers,
On cell phones.

Another stop sign,
Right lane closed.
Sunday drivers,
Nothing flows.

Expecting to get there,
Well, I’ve got news.
Start Singing the Highway,
Forty-One blues.

It gets even worse,
When the snowbirds arrive.
Sitting on phone books,
Trying to drive.

The line of cars,
Is like a parade.
When these part-timers,
Start to invade.

Jacked-up trucks,
With Confederate flags.
Souped-up golf carts,
Equipped for the drags.

Like the Daytona 500,
Some make it a race.
While others crawl along,
At a sea turtle’s pace.

Pale-skinned families,
Put their toes in the sand.
And suffer from red necks,
Instead of getting tanned.

Down the Gulf Coast,
They come in droves.
With their beach chairs,
And Jimmy Buffet clothes.

Fireworks and booze,
Are bought along the way.
And it’s best us residents,
Stay out of their way.

Think this traffic,
Is perhaps over-hyped?
After a month in town,
I got side-swiped.

Start spreading sunscreen,
And the bumper car news.
By singing these Highway,
Forty-One Blues.

copyright 2021 johnstonwrites.com

As you can see, I’m starting to think like the natives in making the switch from tourist to resident. I did, however, just get my car back from the body shop after my Highway 41 incident. Be careful out there!