Ho, ho, ho
The rolling plains of Idaho
with miles of verdant green below
The sky's a cloudy rodeo
and distant mountains flecked with snow
ho, ho, ho

Drive, drive, drive
for miles with not a thing alive
No buildings over 8 feet 5
You wonder how the folks survive
(I wish the hell that we'd arrive)
drive, drive, drive

Wait, wait, wait
Four hours gets you `cross the state
through plains as flat as paper plates
One town per hour, that's the rate
and not a place to find a date
wait, wait, wait

This poem is copyright 1995 John Perry. Any rebroadcast or republication is prohibited without my expressed written consent. Write to me with your comments or usage requests

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