I-95 to Avalon, FL

The armadillos did their best to stop you
but you sent them bouncing like bocce balls 

into the rustling gullet of the kudzu.
The scrub pines lopped off their own limbs
and hurled them into your path, but your radial tires
snapped through them like wooden matchsticks.
The garrison of crows stationed on the twin yellow lines 

turned out to be cowardly, evaporated by the battle-cry

bellowed by your engine.
A short order ex-con in a truck stop
tried to poison you with an okra omelet
but you just vomited a while in the parking lot
and continued on your way. Due south.

The floppy fangs of the orange cones were less menacing 

than the miles squeezed to a claustrophobic corridor 

for resurfacing and patrolled by tar-belching behemoths.
Countless multitudes of insects martyred themselves
against your windshield, perhaps in the hope
that their accumulated goop would glaze the glass into opacity.
They didn't count on the Stuckey's, with its bucket
of gray crudwater, in which was sheathed
the rubber blade Excalibur, that mighty  squeegee.
No, nothing could keep you from completing your quest,
from rescuing your damsel in distress
(whose ample gums and girth were not apparent
in the pictures that she'd posted on the internet)
from the room where she was being held against her will
in a trailer park in a suburb of Gainesville.
Knight errant, you kept spurring on your metal steed. 

You gritted your teeth
on account of all the caffeine pills you'd popped.
Nothing -not shed dragonscales
nor flipped hubcaps, nor state cops
could ever convince you to ease up.