There is no Interstate called Four Twenty,
No one can tell me how to go there, now.
No entry ramps, no exits one might see,
But, still, I dream I'll get there, anyhow.

The neon sign still glows so bright, my friend,
The penguins manning toll gates ask two bits,
Then lifting up the cross bar by its end
They welcome in the artists and misfits.

At every mileage marker on the way,
Twin speakers echo out some brilliant blues.
As Albert King's recorded albums play
We feel the ecstasy, our special muse.

He plays a Gibson, shiny Flying V,
It's not a Les Paul, still, a sight to see.

***

I've searched for mythic trails, so far away.
Route Sixty-six, along that way of fame,
I passed by Amboy, once upon a day. 
New Jersey has a spot known by that name

As poets we may age but sing with youth. 
In words we keep inside our bag of tricks
We paint the world in images of truth
As well as an Exakta Sixty-Six.

Whatever, I have come here just to play,
So serve me up potato chips and beer.
For just as long as fate says that I may
I'lll sing out all my joy and never fear.

I'm Colorado bound to test the weed;
Let everyone live free, that's still my creed.

***

It's sex and drugs and rock and roll, my friend.
Just sayin', that's the stuff that interests me.
Those words of hope should echo till the end
Expressing how one lives a life with glee.

Martini, make it dirty, make it real,
I'll tell some stories 'bout the birds and bees
Now take a letter, tell them how I feel,
I'm spelling there and their and they're with ease.

Four hundred twenty syllables I've done
Completing all three sonnets for this comp
This piece will be four hundred twenty-one
As you can see, it's been a thrilling romp.

"Just write the things you know, the way you feel."
With poetry I've tried to keep it real.