No forks to
sort, no crosswalks to be cross'd.
The scene ahead? Selfsame as seen behind.
The net, ol' chaps? I'll bet, like saps, we’re lost.
The road ahead: avoids it Dante’s wood?
By Beatrice we’d opt to not be boss’d.
(You'd hate that Hades tour: you know you would.)
The road stills/quells/kills hell’s belles. Still, we’re lost.
The road ahead’s paved not with brickwork yellow.
No airborne witch-launch'd chimps us wimps accost.
And while the Wiz proves but some flighty fellow,
he exits by the high road. We stay lost.
The road ahead’s perhaps one best not taken.
Should stand we frozen here on hearing Frost,
reduced to indecision, spook'd and shaken?
No matter how this all shakes out, we’re lost.
Suppose the road’s a via dolorosa.
We’d tread it not, withal Our Savior dost.
As our (of course not His) stravaging goes a-
stray, who’s to say, “Oy vey! Ecce: we’re lost.”
The road, if it’s like Zampano’s la strada,
once trekk'd, shall prove a torment, tempest-tossed,
and we, along that road, might (yadda-yadda,
and yadda-yadda!) Long tale short: we’re lost.
The road ahead’s no railroad underground
whereby one finds one’s way despite all cost.
The world today’s post-racial, I’ll be bound:
What’s lost’s now found – though what’s found’s eas’ly lost.
The road leads not to Singapore or Bali.
The crypts of Bing and Bob? Long wreath'd and joss’d.
More’s needed than to forth toward remakes sally
to find what in the cutting room gets lost.
The road ahead runs not to Mandalay.
Such journeys would our stamina exhaust.
(A trip to Terabithia’s okay.
Result of either trek, however? Lost!)
Suppose the road’s emboss'd, or long and winding.
Suppose it’s gloss'd, awash in Buddhas sauc'd.
Might reading On the Road supply some finding
(e.g., “Sal rarely brushed; Dean never flossed.”)…
…to help us spot the landmark or the line
(such stuff’s required when booties hit the ground)
which helps each road ahead turn out just fine,
and, though, sometimes, though lost, we’re – fin’lly – found?
The scene ahead? Selfsame as seen behind.
The net, ol' chaps? I'll bet, like saps, we’re lost.
The road ahead: avoids it Dante’s wood?
By Beatrice we’d opt to not be boss’d.
(You'd hate that Hades tour: you know you would.)
The road stills/quells/kills hell’s belles. Still, we’re lost.
The road ahead’s paved not with brickwork yellow.
No airborne witch-launch'd chimps us wimps accost.
And while the Wiz proves but some flighty fellow,
he exits by the high road. We stay lost.
The road ahead’s perhaps one best not taken.
Should stand we frozen here on hearing Frost,
reduced to indecision, spook'd and shaken?
No matter how this all shakes out, we’re lost.
Suppose the road’s a via dolorosa.
We’d tread it not, withal Our Savior dost.
As our (of course not His) stravaging goes a-
stray, who’s to say, “Oy vey! Ecce: we’re lost.”
The road, if it’s like Zampano’s la strada,
once trekk'd, shall prove a torment, tempest-tossed,
and we, along that road, might (yadda-yadda,
and yadda-yadda!) Long tale short: we’re lost.
The road ahead’s no railroad underground
whereby one finds one’s way despite all cost.
The world today’s post-racial, I’ll be bound:
What’s lost’s now found – though what’s found’s eas’ly lost.
The road leads not to Singapore or Bali.
The crypts of Bing and Bob? Long wreath'd and joss’d.
More’s needed than to forth toward remakes sally
to find what in the cutting room gets lost.
The road ahead runs not to Mandalay.
Such journeys would our stamina exhaust.
(A trip to Terabithia’s okay.
Result of either trek, however? Lost!)
Suppose the road’s emboss'd, or long and winding.
Suppose it’s gloss'd, awash in Buddhas sauc'd.
Might reading On the Road supply some finding
(e.g., “Sal rarely brushed; Dean never flossed.”)…
…to help us spot the landmark or the line
(such stuff’s required when booties hit the ground)
which helps each road ahead turn out just fine,
and, though, sometimes, though lost, we’re – fin’lly – found?
