The Wheels on the River

It shouldn’t take this long for the flowers to deliver

You’re my, you’re, you’re my end

Please, cat stick, don’t pretend

You are not a quitter, nor a sitter

You pounce on existence and constrict ways-a -better

You told me the dirty rudders would unclutter

But this heh’ boat, yeah, she rolls on mystic water

And she flies to the land of wheels in concrete stature

Here, the engine is healed and instilled with turmOIL

But this is not all

It is a given a pedal that makes sure to go on

To recline, and to define the compass’s state of mind

Most certainly, navigation is undermined in due time

However, the roads, as well as airs, are cleared

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