With apologies to Robert Frost
Whose cars these are I do not know
Just that they're moving awfully slow
Ten thousand tail lights are all I see
Lit with that evil red glow
My little Prius must think it weird
To stop where I have always feared:
The car to my right, advertising Trump
Driven by some maniac with a beard
With my luck, our cars will bump
He'll climb out and fetch me a thump
And calling me a liberal creep
Will leave upon my head a lump
The cars they crawl, the horns they beep
The maniac takes the next exit in his Jeep
How many more hours till I can sleep?
How many more hours till I can sleep?
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