A Road is a Road is a Road.

At the very least Patroclus
For whom his friend Achilles wailed
Abused that magnificent armor
For the glory of a noble cause,
But tonight I wail for myself instead
Inside my armored Citroёn.

I earlier professed King's English
To Assistant Professor Bleistein
With eggnog that tasted like swill
During a winter solstice party
Wherein a bevy of graduate students
Recited their primitive verse.

"Gertrude did Keats in the fall by me
With would be poets who would be king
Next term with Kipling," I said
While surreptitiously spitting out
Some foul brie in my paper napkin
To note a surplus of assonance.

Bleistein, I think, agreed with me
Or was nodding at her ass perhaps.
I wasn't quite sure when he left
As I plummeted two more merlots,
One to cleanse the palate of cheese
And the other one for the road.

But the goddam road rose up on me.
What the hell was I thinking? Shit!
I don't know. I don't fucking know!
I didn't see the sonofabitch!

And the medulla just made me vomit
Comeuppance as they shackle me.