A Road Story.
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I’ve grown up a handsome lad —
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thanks to my Mom and to my Dad —
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And got along with different people well, indeed.
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I never bent my mighty back,
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and never meant to cheat or stack,
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And both my hands did help my head in what I did.
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My life was full of jabs and kicks —
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I was imprisoned, then beat the bricks,
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And wandered o’er the whole country back and forth.
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I thought I’d never get a job,
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but met up a recruiter snob,
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And now I’m driving heavy trucks up to the North.
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The road is muddy and the truck
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has sunk to axles and gotten stuck.
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We can but wait, my mate for long is keeping mum.
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I wish he’d rather bark or bray —
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three hundred miles on either way,
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But he’s just clattering his teeth, my driving chum.
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We both knew well about the road,
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and how they waited for this load,
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So we set off despite the risks — such is our trade.
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The year’s ending is today —
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three hundred miles on either way,
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And the snowstorm has cut us out from any aid.
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He suddenly bursts out with a yell,
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“Switch off this bloody truck to hell!
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By sitting here we really go to the doom!
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Three hundred miles on either way —
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thou’rt crazy if thou want’st to stay,
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Soon the snowstorm will turn this truck into a tomb!”
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I say to him, “Thou mak’st me retch,”
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but in return he grabs a wrench,
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And stares at me, his face is like a deadly mask.
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Three hundred miles on either way,
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and he, who’ll be successful to stay,
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Prove out his innocence to coppers when they ask.
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He was my brother, and e’en more —
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I used to hand-feed him before,
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And now his eye is as malign as it could be.
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If he can get the lucky stripe,
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no one will e’er call to mind
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The circumstance that what he’s gotten he owes to me.
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But he set forward to the dark.
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I wished him all the best of luck,
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Then fell asleep and dreamed about our merry feast:
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Three hundred miles on either way,
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and there’s a labyrinth where I stray —
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I seek the exit and can’t find, it doesn’t exist!
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The end was simple — through the snow
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rolled up a tractor with a tow,
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And with a doctor — so the truck has reached its goal.
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My mate returned, and he looked whipped...
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Well, soon there’ll be another trip —
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I don’t hold grudges, we’re companions after all.
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My mate returned, and he looked whipped...
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Well, soon there’ll be another trip —
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I don’t hold grudges, we’re companions after all.
1972.
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