Key West: Road Rage is Rising Again in Margaritaville

I recently came back to live in Key West following eight years of being away. A disappointing discovery was seeing the significant reduction in the numbers of bicycles and scooters on the quaint little island's narrow roadways. They once added to the unique laid-back-from-way-back charm of the place. Motorists now have overtaken the crowded island with their big, over-sized trucks and SUV's, and what's more, I've witnessed a growing prevalence in road rage over the two years that I've been back.

Angry, impatient drivers in fast cars, quick to blow their horns at pedestrians, and what few scooters and bicycles remain, is an affront and abomination to the history and true spirit of this place - or what had always been its spirit. I felt the need to document my displeasure toward this recent change, and this poem is what resulted; appropriately written to the rhythm of Jimmy Buffet's 1977 Margaritaville:

Drivin’ down Truman,

I passed by a woman,

leisurely biking along in the right lane.

The huge pickup before me,

cuts her off so damn rudely;

blowing its horn as she falls down in pain.

Chorus:

Road rage is running rampant in Margaritaville;

scooter and bicycle riders receive verbal assault.

Witnesses claim there are mad drivers to blame;

but you know, perhaps it’s nobody’s fault.

Money may be the reason,

folks are angry all season;

paid too much for their brand new big cars.

They make it their new roles,

to become angry road assholes;

rather than chilling it out down in the bars.

Chorus:

Road rage is running rampant in Margaritaville;

scooter and bicycle riders receive verbal assault.

Witnesses claim there are mad drivers to blame;

do you think, it could be the cyclist’s fault?

Here comes the ringer,

he flipped her the finger;

turned shouting, “Get the hell out of the way!”

Yes, this is just one accounting,

but the numbers keep mounting;

as more drivers act out aggressions every day.   

Chorus:

Road rage is running rampant in Margaritaville;

scooter and bicycle riders receive verbal assault.

Witnesses claim there are mad drivers to blame;

and you know, I’ve seen it!

It’s clearly the drivers' damn fault!

~gj duerrschmidt

For more by this writer:

The Orangenous Zone

Naughty Poet: Your Page, or Mine?

Cheap brandy in my coffee,

Cardbordeaux by the glass;

I spend days writing poetry,

with no depth, so little class.

Many missed opportunities,

chances I’ve readily blown;

I pen of loves most coveted,

of loves I’ve not yet known.

I write about more orgasms,

than will ever grace my bed;

the greatest of sexual trysts,

are the ones still in my head.

Many may think me a loner,

though I’m rarely ever alone;

with a pen and pad of paper,

I’ve always someone to bone.

~gj duerrschmidt

For more by this writer:

The Orangenous Zone 

Oilcooledengineville (A VW bus' version of Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville)

Covered in mud cake,
feelin’ my paint bake;
all of my engine is covered with oil.
Doin’ my road thing,
hearin’ my valves ping;
smell of exhaust leaking out the aluminum foil!

Rusted away again in Oilcooledengineville.

Looking for my lost Quaker State oil.

Some people say that there's a human to blame,

but I know,

it's nobody’s fault.

I don't have no reason,
I just roll for pleasin’;
nowhere to go but the same beach will do.
I feel it’s my duty,
to check out some booty;
how I’ll ever get some, hell, I haven't a clue!

Rusted away again in Oilcooledengineville.

Looking for my lost Quaker State oil.

Some people say that there's a human to blame,

now I think,
hell, it could be my fault.

I blew out a tire,
brakes are on fire;
cutting my losses and cruising back home.
But once I’m back at the condo,
I’ll mix a cocktail of bondo:
that magic concoction that helps me hang on!

Rusted away again in Oilcooledengineville.

Looking for my lost Quaker State oil.

Some people say that there's a human to blame,

but I know,

it's my own damn fault.

Yes, and some people claim that there's a human to blame,

and I know,

it's my own damn fault!

~Vintage van GO[gh]

(a.k.a ~gj duerrschmidt)

 

For more by this writer:

The Orangenous Zone 

Sensual Poetry: Very Sexual, A Little Corny

I got up to write a poem today,

dawn is barely breaking;

didn’t sleep a wink last night,

now my head is aching.

I suppose I’ll take two aspirin,

to help my brandy coffee;

and take my mind off the pain,

sucking an English toffee.

Writing poetry’s much like sex:

eventually it will come;

sometimes the wait is longer,

mostly, can’t get some.

If I’d a sweet thing in my bed,

hell no, I’d not be writing;

but rather madly sucking on it,

licking it hard, and biting!

Now I’m feeling wide awake,

no pain, and a little horny;

I believe I’ve a poem in mind:

very sexual, a little corny.

~gj duerrschmidt

 

For more by this writer:

The Orangenous Zone