On a corner in Winslow, Arizona, two singers were arguing over who should sing the song.
“Look, I wrote it,” said one. “I should get first shot.”
“Wrote WHAT?” said the other. “It’s only a half a song – you need more.”
“I know, I know, smart-ass. Any smart ideas?”
Just then, a passing flatbed Ford slowed down to look at the two squabbling singers. She leaned out of the window, calling out “Take it easy, boys,” trying to calm them down.
“That’s it!” said the first. “I’ll have the flatbed Ford and you can have the song.”
“Deal,” said the second.
“Look, I wrote it,” said one. “I should get first shot.”
“Wrote WHAT?” said the other. “It’s only a half a song – you need more.”
“I know, I know, smart-ass. Any smart ideas?”
Just then, a passing flatbed Ford slowed down to look at the two squabbling singers. She leaned out of the window, calling out “Take it easy, boys,” trying to calm them down.
“That’s it!” said the first. “I’ll have the flatbed Ford and you can have the song.”
“Deal,” said the second.
