No 7hunder Road

There's seven miles of good road to the east,
seven bad to the west, and bears.
Southbound there's seven times seven,
fractured roadbeds through limestone hills,
running t'ward the flatlands from whisky stills
like cracks in shattered ice.

Nothing to the north save a river, not very deep,
safe enough when the weathers dry, no eye
for the highway of the pioneers, canoe's are cheap
plenty of room for jugs between the seats.
Float on down when the moon is full and high,
pockets dry as the sky, cloudless