Low Moment on the High Road

O the sailor he longs for the pasture
And the farmer he longs for the sea,
But both of their longings together
Don’t add up to the longing of me.

For I am an idiot driver
And I’m stuck in an idiot car;
With idiots to port and to starboard,
Astern, and ahead for as far

As my idiot vision can carry.
And I sit and I sit in this place
As wheelchairs and people on crutches
Whiz past at a sickening pace.

O for the wings of an angel.
Or even for those of a bird;
For what I am doing at present
Is nothing but bloody absurd.