All day I drive the urban waste,
The sun beats down upon my face.
Its heat and the contaminated air,
Dry me out and mat my hair.
Driving to the pounding beat,
Of tires on imperfections in the street,
I try to keep my attention,
As I traverse the urban nation.
Where fast stops grace every corner,
And convenience abounds.
And brand name makes no difference.
To the corporate hounds.
Who develop to the bottom line.
Regardless of the cost.
And turn every corner into an oasis,
Where no sale is lost.
But oh the cost of conformity,
To the bottom line.
The urban landscape is transformed,
Into techno time.
After days of driving,
These hot, mean, ugly streets.
I yearn for a mountain canyon stream,
And air of fragrant sweets.
Yellow, red, green, go,
Why are they going so slow?
Hurry up, only to wait,
Will I be early; will I be late?
To some the city is exciting,
Filled with things to do.
I'd shuck it all in a minute,
For a country road and you.
Copyright 1999 (c) Ronald W. Hull