With apologies to The Spinners:
This, is my fork in the road
Next to that dead toad
Guess it fell from my load, oh no
It’s on the ground, now it’s up to me
To bow down gracefully
Though my stuff’s heavy, and get it
Whenever I need it, it’s still there
I use it to eat and, yes I care
I’d rather I lost my underwear
There on the ground
I, knew just what to pack
And if I cut myself slack
Some of my grub will slip away, but I know
There’s always a chance
I’ll catch some fish on the way, yeah
And cook them up over flames
And then I can eat again, but I know you know
There is also that pesky unbearable being of heaviness to consider.
It’s there in the dirt
Gazing back at me
To the sky through the trees
Forks have eyes, if you please
At least in poetry
As one who appreciates how difficult these things are to write: Nicely done!
[bows]
Sorry. Not getting it. At all.
Being is ontology. This poem is epistemologically themed from Hume’s fork to “I know you know.” Unless it isn’t.
Dur…
Is the fifteen second rule voided for utensils on backpack trips?
Yes, but a campfire will sterilize them nicely at red heat.
Why is Allah linking James Dobson? That is a surpassingly gay thing to do I think. James Dobson. Ick. I have to flush my cache now.