Ah, the Long Island Expressway—our famed LIE,
Where "express" is ironic, yet we use it to flee.
From Queens to Riverhead, it's a daily test,
Of patience and playlists—and holding in stress.

Like the Southern State Parkway, with some curves so tight,
It demands your focus both day and night.
It’s narrow, it’s wild, it’s got no shoulder—
And somehow everyone drives ten miles over.

The Northern State is a racetrack in disguise.
Where merging's a sport and blinkers are lies.
Folks zip like they’re late for a flight to the moon—
Doing 80 in the left lane even by noon.

Still, we drive on with coffee in tow,
From Montauk Point to Jericho.
Through traffic and snow, rain or shine,
We curse and cruise these roads all the time.

So here’s to Long Island’s daily dance,
Where speeding's a language and you take your chance.
And if you made it home without yelling once—
Congrats, my friend. You’ve beaten the Bronx.