I'm 50. I'm pretty

I went to a funeral yesterday morning in Philly. 

and when I left, I thought my car was making this horrible noise,

but no lights were on the dashboard so I ignored it . 

And blamed it on the city. 

A couple times, cars with guys in them passed and honked at me, 

and I was all proud, cause, you know, I'm 50.

I had a dress on, my hair was braided, jewelry on;

I could still attract attention, so in my head I was singing "I'm 50, I'm pretty".

Then a huge dump truck pulled up, 

and the guy leaned out and yelled "hey, you're -" I couldn't hear the rest.

but he pointed at the car. 

Not me. 

He pointed at the car. 

So I pulled over.

Yup. Of course.

I had run over the orange cone that said "funeral home".

It was caught between my tire and the wheel well. 

and I had driven, with it stuck there, all the way down to the bridge.