Ponce de Leon was long at sea
Until the summer of 1513.
In the doldrums
And scorched by the sun,
The crew was restless,
And running low on rum.

Cayo Hueso is what they found,
The Isle of Bones;
Sand all around.
Gentle tradewinds,
And the water warm,
The slightest chance
Of an evening storm.

And so it is,
To this very day,
A wonderful place
To come and play.

Banyan trees stand lazily.
Mangroves hang tenuously,
To the shore.
Light clothing is thick
In the humidity.
Visitors are caught in the revelry,
Of sunset on Mallory Square.

We stop for a beer at Sloppy Joes,
But after a few,
It's time to go.
Down the street
To Captain Tony's,
Margaritaville, the Bull,
And then Runaground Harvey's.

It's socially acceptable,
So they say,
A tradition begun by
Hemmingway,
To have a drink
In the early day,
And by four
To begin to gently sway,
As you amble down the lane.

In the bay
The manatees,
Lazily swim
In the aqua seas.
Tarpon patrol
The docks at dawn.
Fisherman cry out,
I've got one on.

We rode the Conch Train,
As I sat by my spouse,
Past Hemmingway's place,
And the Winter White House.
Past the southernmost point,
Ninety miles from Cuba,
Not far from Miami,
Or the Dry Tortugas.

At the end of the day
It's time to go,
Back to the mainland,
Where I've come to know,
That when the snow starts to blow,
There's no place like
Key West.