The Pheasant’s Lament
The taste of tarmac is addictively sweet
Is my one and only explanation
Why a blend of tar, stone, and sand,
Can lead so many straight to damnation.
Tarmac is so irresistible, a magnetic attraction
That even a Pope was seduced by its lure.
Reacting like a Siren had cried out his name
Testing arthritic hips as he dropped to the floor.
What enchanting ingredients must it contain
To draw beasts from the land in such haste?
Eager to leave nature’s protective hands
And risk all for one brief, enticing taste.
The long, winding road is littered with addicts
Caught by surprise as they pecked at the grit.
Flesh and bone tombstones, the mangled remains
Of suicidal creatures seeking one deadly last hit.