It's a Strange Strange Road, poetry by John Fulstone at Spillwords.com
Den Belitsky

It’s a Strange Strange Road

It’s a Strange Strange Road

written by: John Fulstone

 

It’s a strange, strange road we live on – by the railroad track.
Boxcars sing with a rhythmic – clackity clack.
Coyotes howled to the moon from their pack,
Once we hop on – we can always come back.
It’s a strange, strange road we live on – our whites are all black.

There are delicious shadows – says the chairman for now.
Some other fellows – hoped to have beat him somehow,
While coyotes yapped at the moon from behind our house.
They’ve since sunk under gallows,
And are all long gone anyhow.

It’s a strange, strange road we live on – by the railroad track.
Boxcars sing with a rhythmic – clackity clack.
As coyotes howled to the moon from their pack.
Let’s hop on – we can always look back;
It’s a strange, strange road we live on – the people are all gob-smacked.

Overhead came the crows – and birds of their feather,
Mapping the Earth – and predicting its weather
As we ignored their diabolic eye.
To fly up high – above a blue sky,
And soar with them now would really been sweet,
We could spy all our friends – on dystopia street.

To young ductile minds – pedagogues are so unkind.
Coyotes have snuck in behind the line.
Critical thought once stoically sought,
Now eludes the schoolmarm’s mind.
Parents could’ve heroically fought,
But ’twas past their nap time.

It’s a strange, strange road we live on – by the railroad track.
Boxcars sing with a rhythmic – clackity clack.
It’s a strange, strange road we live on;
Neighbors are sophists on crack.
It’s a strange, strange road we live on – we can never go back,
Coyotes howl throatily from their brutal pack.

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