Crosses

From Bonner to Alzada, the crosses line the road,

and hidden in the data, that crosses do forebode.

The Reaper waits for those, whose common sense forgoes,

the rains and the snows, or the wind that always blows.

The tavern on the line, sellin’ beer and wine,

 last call to consign, the crosses to enshrine.

Three hundred on patrol, can never stop the toll,

just pour on the coal, make that Buick roll.

The drunkard is on ice, they only caught him twice,

the service it was nice, he finally paid the price.

Markin’ out a strip, then we let ‘er rip,

Kinda’ sad that Kip, will miss his senior trip.

Foggy morning dread, six crosses up ahead,  

half the choir is dead, lots of tears to shed.

A junction full of crosses, enumerate the losses,

not the kind of notches, wanted on our watches.

The roads are all two-lane, out upon the plain,

of hazards we complain, while we race the train,

Herds on open range, never are they strange,

last rites to arrange, it don’t never change.

And when the blizzards blow, the bold will always go,

if only they could know, they’d maybe take it slow.

Crosses line the way, it will never be okay,

let’s leave a wreath today, out on that sad highway.

LDT Feb 19, ‘22

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