A stranger in a van offers a neat bit of wisdom: long highways make for deep thought. Devon, the speaker, doesn't take it quietly. He answers with a deliberately absurd line about passageways to Argentina producing sauerkraut and chocolate trousers. It's a joke built to mock the stranger's tidy cause-and-effect logic, though he never explains it as one.
The stranger, reasonably, waits for a punch line. When none comes, Devon supplies a literal one by punching him. The pun is the poem's sharpest moment, and the plain, abrupt last line lands with a jolt after the loose, silly lines before it.
The speaker seems restless, prickly, and quick to turn playfulness into aggression. The title suggests he's looking back on his own "wayward ways," maybe with a shrug rather than regret, since the poem offers no apology. The mood starts out light and absurd, then turns uncomfortable and darkly funny, leaving us unsure whether to laugh or wince.