Upon the morrow, I must drive
Up north upon I-Sixty-Five
Not to Montgomery or Atlanta
But all the way to Indiana

And there I will spend several days
Among the folk of Amish ways
Those pedalers of way-cool bicycles
And drivers of horse-drawn vehicles

'Tis Rapparee's old stomping ground
And I shall search 'til I have found
His bootprints, old and faint and blurred
Smashed in a petrified horse turd