The Dangers of Pennyslvania

There’s a place down the road.
A poorly taken care of unkempt road.
Hole the size of a small moon.
The kind that swallows cars whole.
Many brave cars have traveled it.
With aspirations of reaching some destination.
And they have fallen short.
Who knows how many tires ended there.
Each passing week a new victim.
All I ask, all I want to know.
Can I stop paying my taxes.
Till you fix the damn potholes.

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