Last night I went to the samba bar,
Hear my good friend play the flute.
Wanted to write some words for the singer,
Ended up with a country rhyme.
Dreamt I drove the green old bug,
Filling up on one-ninety proof.
Up and down the Andes, by the Salty Flats,
Through Texas-size ranches, and the rainforest too.
Sorry, Susanna, don't get me wrong,
This just don't sound like no samba song.
Ferried along Darien, on to the Chihuahua desert,
Passed the island prison and the pipeweed fields.
Crossed the border at the Rio Grande,
Drove straight to the New England Pike.
Got no Ivy League, no six-figure job,
Just came up North with the love I got.
We write back and forth, we speak on the phone,
I ask of the girls, we talk of rent and flights.
I saw you on the iMac with the new iSight.
Just wanted to say I love you.
Now hit the Pan Am Road, Beetle, real quick,
Got a class to teach in about a week.
(Country rhyme, dated 2005. To be read with a twang.)