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
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