Hitchhiking History, Up Mountains

There is a mountain in my mind,

that I’ve never made the move to climb.

In sober safety, my feet have been surrounded,

by cement,

perchance I’m bent,

on all the wrong things,

in all the wrong ways.

But, how can I help it?

So, I’ll sign my name in the cement,

resigning to not lament,

the past, that flew to the suspicious moon,

but alas, I’ll ever-croon,

song, after song, after song,

until I feel all the stronger.

As the old song goes,

“Fly me to the moon,”

for it is like a hammock of mystery,

throughout all of hitchhiking history.