SIXTEEN CARS

Recently I’ve found myself whistling “Sixteen Tons” an old Country and Western song when I’m walking some of the quieter streets, and I thought I’d have a go at rewriting the words for my current situation; don’t laugh too hard at my lyrical ineptitude

Some say Traffic Wardens are lower than mud
This poor man's made outta muscle and blood
Muscle and blood and skin and bone
A mind that's weak and a back that's strong

You book sixteen cars, don’t they want more?
Another day older and my feet are still sore
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I sold my soul to the box tickers laws

Born one mornin' when the sun had no heat
Pulled on my uniform, walked out on my beat
Booked sixteen cars on double yellow lines
And the boss man said "Make more motorists whine"

You book sixteen cars, don’t they want more?
Another day older and my feet are still sore
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I sold my soul to the box tickers laws

If you see me comin', better get off those lines
A lotta folk didn't, and those people got fined
I’m out clearing bus stops so traffic can flow
You want to know where is? Do I look like I know?

You book sixteen cars, don’t they want more?
Another day older and my feet are still sore
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I sold my soul to the box tickers laws

One day I’ll get free of this whole sorry mess
Walking these Streets will be behind me I guess
I’ll free up my body and master my fate
Hell, maybe I’ll even try to emigrate

You book sixteen cars, don’t they want more?
Another day older and my feet are still sore
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I sold my soul to the box tickers laws

By Bill Sticker 2007, with a gargantuan shedload of apologies to Merle Travis