It's Been One Of Those Days!

Whose roads these are I think I know
He's on his way to prison though
He will not see me driving here
At eight miles an hour and ear to ear.
My little car does think its queer
To drive so slow this time of year
It strains and grumbles to chill the air
And still the sweat runs through my hair
The roads are packed, I'm in a tizzy
I might as well be driving an old tin Lizzy.
But I'll arrive with hair all frizzy
Yes I'll arrive with hair all frizzy.