Cones
The sun is shining, all is well,
At least as far as I can tell.
The gleaming tarmac rushing by,
The whisps of cloud, the sunlit sky,
The horses prancing in a field,
The joy of driving is revealed.
But then something to chill the bones —
A never ending line of cones
Appears upon the road ahead.
It is the scene that I so dread.
They slow us down to walking pace.
A look of horror sears my face.
Miles of plastic - orange — white.
The journey will take half the night.
There are no workmen to be seen.
The two closed lanes look quite serene.
A million pounds of silent plant
Sit idle. I would cry but can‘t.
l rage inside. I try to chill.
The effort makes me feel quite ill.
I'm stuck behind a refuse truck.
Filled with some quite disgusting muck.
I've been here many times before
And why so many? I’m not sure.
Some secret governmental plan
To squeeze more tax from mortal man
By making us consume more fuel.
The cone is their insidious tool.
It tears at pocket, mind and soul.
I do believe it is their goal
To cover every road and street
With cones and then their works complete.
It's Hell's first circle. Limbo land.
A world I do not understand.
I hope you will excuse my tone.
I hate the bloody traffic cone!
