Daytona Beach is red.
Red like the rednecks I dated.
Red like the red coquina rocks I walked on.
Red like my face when I have to tell people
I grew up on Daytona Beach.

The sand on the beach was white like the tourists.
But the sea was wild and salty like me.
I still can't wash that sea off me.
There are people I know who notice that sometimes.

Daytona Beach houses are beach houses.
Or condos.
Or trailer homes.
Only one of those blows away in a hurrican'.

Some people had cows, and we used to try to "tip" them
by running fast at them and pushing them over as hard
as we could.
I really, really wish I didn't do this.

We don't wear shoes, and we don't care.
Most restaurants don't even mind.
We wear baggies or bikinis or short colorful dresses.
Or jeans and hawaiian shirts and boots, which are
hot. And it's too damned hot in Daytona.

And the tourists, they should go on home.
The worst are the New Yorkers, them damn stupid
Yankees.
They expect us to rush when we bring them their coffee
and that is the joke of our day.
We take our time, we idle by.
But we smile to their faces.

In Daytona, we know it is better to act nice than to
be nice.
We know that being tan is the most important thing.
We know that driving on the beach is a right that must
be preserved at all costs
Even if it does kill the baby turtles and leave stinky
black tar on your feet at the end of the day.

When Spring Break comes, the boys rush to take
advantage of all the drunk college girls.
We local girls stay home, licking our red, salty wounds
I feel I will never get out of this place.
Ya'll might, but I won't.

Even when I do,
You can still smell the salt on me.
The red is just under the nape of my neck.
And under my $500 shoes, there is tar on my feet.

And I'm still wild.
Wild like all us girls in Daytona.

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