A man stands upon the crossroads of night.
Only one path leads to the vales of light.
He exists in encapsulated fright.
He knows there is no way out, even flight.
A signboard, hoist'd on a metal pike
Gives some advice that offers no insight
of taken paths that are, in essence, right
The man will not give up without a fight.
The night crawls on, a weary move to spite
His musings and deliberations, quite
a measure of his great willpower's might
always ready to right the tiniest slight.
A girl runs wild, leading a golden kite
Over the high hills and vales of the bright
Dawn, which, by that fight, is held by a blight
With hordes of crawling Undead Warcraft™wights.
Each path, he thinks, oh so very contrite
Is fraught with dangers, such as large termites
Which, when seen, make even grown men go yikes
Screaming for all their worth into black mikes.
And when Holland finishes her great dykes
And subjugates those floods that often strike
There will still be men who stand there and, like
Think of which darned straight pathway to go smite.
And so this is why I will never Skype
This poem's getting crazier as I write.
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