Monday, October 26, 2009

Stupid Rhyming Poem Installment #1

I wrote this in the car when P.S. Eliot was on tour in July. Will, Katherine, and I were (as you may have assumed from the title) driving along the old Oregon Trail.

'When Yr on the Oregon Trail'

When you're on the Oregon Trail
Baristas churn to tell you tales
of absent taxes on the sales
of Venti Soy Iced Coffees.

And when you're traveling down this trail
a sharpened ton of pine trees flail
around, their needle-fingers frail 
but never brown or breaking. 

As your wagon caulks and sails,
your Idaho potatoes stale
and leave your palette plain and pale.
She'll break the highway Richter scale.

And some might die along the way
from Typhoid fever, food decay.
The markers left read 'Here She Lay.'
She was too heavy anyway.

And when your memory bails and fails
at photographing small details
just forge the river, you'll prevail.
Oh when you're on the Oregon Trail.

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