These weathered mountains of old
Colored by the souls who call them home
Enchanted by steeped history
And buildings of ages past.
A foreigner to hillscapes
People bumper to—
Hey, can I cut you off?
Craziness which borders insanity,
Leaves me shaking my head.
…And I thought Tampa was bad?
A sign to remind passersby
Of smoking muskets and war cries
Stands stoically on that lonesome hill
As I fly right on by.