Once in the insipid land of the inkhorn
there was an enclave of freedom
that ruled the heart of the universe.
Now it is the fiefdom of the wonted dread,
gerrymandered to conformity
governed by the contrite law.
Still, the highway is within that province
and everything else that surrounds it.
It is harder to discern now but
this is no alien territory,
and the hoary florets that are awaiting
a long overdue pluck are
weeping the scent of the Woodstock within.
