Steve’s a first-class driver
And he ain’t no nine-to-fiver,
Going here and there and back unflaggingly.
Fog and rain’s no never mind,
Never gripes about the grind,
And his sweet, angelic smile sets you free.
But he ain’t no navigator!
Oh, he’ll get there soon or later–
Later is the term that best defines his style.
Though his attitude’s sublime,
He makes wrong turns all the time;
Takes him hours to traverse merely a mile!
One example will suffice,
Yet I could go twice or thrice
In recounting Stephen’s syndrome, I declare.
Though it’s perplexing to conceive,
And I know you won’t believe,
It’s the truth, the whole truth–nothing but, I swear!
Now, it’s but three-hundred feet
To the shops across the street
From the motel where we passed the Cary night.
When we started there one evening
To have dinner, we left leaving
With the thought that we’d arrive ere morning’s light.
Well, to make this story shorter,
We took longer than we orter–
Nigh on longer than this verse before I cease.
When we passed through Oklahoma,
Kingman, Barstow, and Pomona,
I suspicioned Steve had turned west ‘stead of east!
We were finally restored
To the Fairfield Inn once more;
As it turned out, little worse for the event.
But traveling with Steve in Cary
