In yesteryear
He had a tingle of anticipation
Behind his eyes
But he didn't heed the call
He stuck to his studies
Bound his eyes to the road
And seldom greeted his neighbors
He wandered onward
On a direct path
Oblivious to the beauty and the horror
That unfolded alongside
But he continued on
Not caring
For never seeing
He had no time to be repulsed
Or to want it
His goals were set
And so were his ways
That when he was old and feeble
He was indeed chronic
Chronically infeebled
Embarassingly un-peopled
Not knowing left to right
Only front and forward
Sitting up straight
And never slacking off
Seldom taking time
For any jacking off
Desposited in his ways
So that at the end of his days
He was worthy of nothing
But his own reward
So with a shrug
A pat on the back
And a world weary sigh
He mustered up the courage
To look behind
And he cried
Swallowing a lump in his throat
But despite wanting it all now
As hard as he tried
To walk backward
He coulnd't make it there
He fell on his knees and begged and begged
But he couldn't be heard
For the maker was busy
Making joy for the weary.
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