Pointy little isle of orange
From a slow-wheeling truck they disgorge
And calmly engulf the pavement’s wealth
A visit from plastic hoardes
Inclining cars to stop
Or slow themselves up
In an effort to make a road-work crew
Safer on the job and un-splattered
Attending on the berm - standing firm
Cones keep arraying
So proudly tough, we’re good enough
Commuters for delaying !
You may as well slow down
We’ll guide you thru the town...
A cone I am, traffic-ly

You think of me at roadworks, hey
I’m to show drivers the way
Or they’re likely to (and still sometimes do)
Hit holes that loom right in their way
But they oft still knock me down
Then ass-up in hole they flound’
Then they curse their luck, call a towing truck
But for those really capricious:
Swerving, some reroute
Just to clout cones without mercy
Still we highway-ly must subsist
Why does traffic hurt me ?
In their power of speed
Unruly they proceed
To cone flat-ten, traffic-ly

It seems to me that
There are cone parts
Strewn around the boul-
evard upended
Cleft, bunged and bended
What can we do? What can we do?

A cone I am, traffic-ly

When loonies grab steering wheels
I start to uneasy, feels
It’s a trend I de-cry, getting sideswiped by
Near-sighted dudes plied with beers
Though I’m colored bright and bold
I’d rather not have been told
That my best-est mate, Cone 3-068
By some lollygag, had been taken
Hid him in his trunk, did a drunk
From South Hoboken
Sunlight, again, I doubt he’ll see
His spirit will be broken
For cones, this life is rough
And no-one gives a stuff...
For cones that are traffic-ly
Alone, are cones, traffic-ly