Back Seat Drivers
What a loveliest summer day is has been
I rowed our boat through the shadowed backwater
And she laughingly asked me haven’t I seen
That black swan – 'never was a good spotter’
Said I, rounding a log, but her quick attention
Switched to waterfall near the mill
And she said 'take care of the third dimension
It may fall down on us from the hill’
I turned the boat around, and then it was silence
A pause, when it’s nothing to talk about
Then a voice from the stern – 'what’d you think of tyrants’
She asked, being ready to laugh aloud
‘I don’t vote’, I said,– 'those current and next
Special creatures, desired for power
They do take heed of the preset context
Established since times of Mayflower
Founding Fathers, according to beautiful legend
Were full of fair ideas, good intention
But even old money haven’t been reddened
Same is true for new order convention
And with time it has turned to humiliating game
Mere participants still like to play
They are back seat drivers without a name
Fixed percent of ash in an ashtray’
Speculation on hopes in the form of voting,
I said, 'looks like very dishonest way’
Meanwhile the boat kept on lazily floating
Willows, touched by the breeze, slightly swayed
‘So you stand for the absolute horizontal’, she said,
And narrowed her eyes with a smile
‘But I bet that you’d rather give orders, instead
Telling tales that sound too juvenile
And I don’t believe you’, she added,– 'you claim
That involvement don’t mean a thing
But it does mean something, if we are the same
Two old souls, for whom birdies can sing’.
