O tropical paradise, we didn’t know your fate.
When family and I drove along your river of grass
in 1950: Welcome to the great Sunshine State
said the billboards along the Trail as we passed.
When Mom, Dad and I drove across the river of grass
on the Tamiami Trail, a narrow black strip,
said the billboards along the Trail as we passed:
Genuine Florida Souvenirs! Get ’em on your trip.
On the Tamiami Trail, a narrow black strip
with a shimmering mirage ahead on the blacktop,
genuine Florida souvenirs, get them on your trip.
The Trail Indians stared from their chickees; we didn’t stop.
A shimmering mirage was ahead on the blacktop,
the Everglades egrets caught fish in their beaks,
Miccosukee women glared from their chickees, we didn’t stop;
airboats and alligators floated in creeks.
The Everglades egrets held fish in their beaks;
we rolled down the windows. Wind blew our hair
while airboats and alligators floated the creeks
and my Midwestern parents basked in warm air.
We rolled down the windows, wind blew our hair,
we headed for the Gulf (of Mexico that is),
My Midwestern parents exclaimed, “Feel the air!”
My father decided this place would be his.
We headed for Clearwater—Florida that is,
along with a trickle of other brave folks.
My father decided this place would be his,
built a little ranch house where once there were oaks.
Along with a trickle of similar folks
we swam from the beaches ’til Dad bought a boat,
lived in little ranch houses on the graves of the oaks.
My Dad planted jasmine, hibiscus, avocados.
We found shells on the beaches, caught fish from our boat;
I caught a redfish with scales red as blood.
My Dad planted oranges, kumquats, avocados.
Later, that trickle of settlers turned into a flood.
I caught a redfish; its scales looked like blood.
Then we moved to a river ’cause its banks were still wild.
But the trickle of settlers had grown to a flood—
There were so many people the land was defiled.
We moved to a river; its banks were still wild,
its water as clear as if it were air.
But many more people found the land was defiled
and tropical paradise no longer was there.
Water no longer as clear as the air,
air became dirty from too many cars
and tropical paradise no longer was there.
Too many people! No view of the stars.
Air so polluted from too many cars,
the river of grass regulated by locks.
Too many people. No sky full of stars.
So many dreams would sink just like rocks.
The river of grass regulated by locks.
Disney World came and replaced all the groves.
Too many dreams wound up on the rocks
and tourists poured South in scandalous droves.
Disney World came and replaced all the groves,
launch pads were built along the Space Coast.
Tourists flew South in scandalous droves;
Cape Canaveral became the space shuttle’s host.
Launch pads were built along the Space Coast,
interstate highways where roads were once ribbons,
Cape Canaveral became the space shuttle’s host,
and identical houses filled a million subdivisions.
Multilane highways where roads were once ribbons,
rivers, lakes, beaches are fighting pollution,
identical houses in a million subdivisions;
more and more people are not the solution.
When Mom, Dad, and I drove south to the ’Glades
on roads that were ribbons through forests of shade,
in 1950: Welcome to the great Sunshine State!
O, tropical paradise, we didn’t know your fate.