Across Boynton Beach ran a popular road known as Gateway Boulevard.
Commuting to work on it each weekday morning the traffic moved like lard
Cruising past Motorola, eastbound vehicles mostly went single-file
In the right lane starting at Congress Avenue, dragging through all the half-mile
Along Quantum Boulevard and High Ridge Road, where long stoplights delayed the dull drive
Until the right turn to the onramp that dropped to the highway called I-95.
We’re getting on I-95, in line, we’re getting on I-95
The road never ends but as long as we’re friends we’re all getting on I-95.
Florida drivers were cool and unhurried; some surely could be terribly slow.
Old codgers wearing old hats had no clue they impeded the old traffic flow.
I’d blow past all of them, taking the left lane; I most every day made the pole
Up at the High Ridge Road light. Once it turned, I’d just kick it in and quickly roll
Forward, ahead of the slouch to my right, so that at the onramp I’d arrive
Long past the long line of travelers waiting to turn onto I-95.
We’re getting on I-95, my friends, we’re getting on I-95
It makes us feel proud to be part of the crowd all for getting on I-95.
In the South Bay there’s no waste of a chance to exploit the available lanes.
Drivers move quickly to block one another from realizing possible gains
That may have been realized, had lane-changing tactics let somebody else take the lead,
Yet for all that I have nothing to say of this crowd in its ruthless stampede
Than that it’s just like that past Florida crowd in the sense that it’s no more alive
In any real way, whether faster or meaner, than those back on I-95.
You’re getting on I-95, old crew, you’re getting on I-95
All throughout life, in each gladness and strife, you’re just getting on I-95.