It doesn’t judge, it doesn’t slander, the way that I live,
I like the silent love, the tarmacadam madam gives,
like with my adventure, it ride’s both coarse and smooth,
as a cat’s eye lights the way, and the pothole makes me move.
Though I converse with my kind, that are inside the car,
a stronger speech blooms wordlessly, underneath the stars,
both before and after; I have bled for my art,
my peepers become a jeepster, for the road that beats my heart.
Even when you meander, you are straight with me,
as with telepathic thought, we uncover some revelry,
so; that I can escape that number, of 7.9 billion,
a population, that continues to stir up some oblivion.
If only we, the talking monkeys, could be more like you,
a shining example, to act less proud, to cause less a bruise,
unto each other, to yourself, and the planet we call home,
thank you, tarmacadam madam, for making sure I’m not alone.