All the old poets perish in parturition.
Most of their life is consumed by a line.
on keys gone astray,
doing their best to end on a rhyme.
I am just glad that I am an old trucker.
I am not expected to make sense
I only have to get where I am going on time,
keeping eighteen wheels on my side of the line.
Six hundred miles
and laid over on Sunday.
You can bet your ass I will be there on Monday.
Detour signs drive me out of my mind
and pretty girls
are the luckiest find.
While all the old poets are stuck in perdition,
wracked by their meter
and trying to rhyme petite,
I am at a truck stop ordering potatoes and meat.
Somewhere between the mountains and rainbows,
that is where you will find me
Yip I am just rumbling astray
down an ole highway
and you will never catch me
pondering a rhyme.
Well, not while there are pretty girls
left to drive me out of my mind.