Mine is the fault. With a heavy heart
I sigh away:
Got tightly stuck in this deep rut
That someone made.
Of my own choice the targets are,
Which I have set,
And here I am, and off the rut
I cannot get.
The sheer walls that rim the rut
Are slippery and greasy mud.
Cursed be those whoíve worn down this rut!
This is going to fill up the cup.
Iím declining, like learning by heart:
To a rut, in a rut, with a rut.
But why am I as if on thorns?
Conditions here, all in all,
No one will bump, nor push aside
You cannot carp.
And fancy you a headlong drive,
Then here you are!
Thereís no denial in chow and sup
In this convenient, cozy rut.
Apprehensively, I figure out:
I am not all alone in this rut.
Carry on, chum, a wheel in a wheel!
And youíll get right where all ever will.
Now, someone yields a frenzied shout:
Come, let me go!
And starts to struggle with the rut
He has depleted, in this row,
The stock of love,
With bearing brasses busting up
As well as valves.
And yet he warps the rims of rut,
The walls are, now, some more apart.
But his driveway abruptly cuts short.
And the chapís being dragged to a moat.
So he couldnít impede us, behind,
Driving headway along the alient rut.
And now I am as well in trouble
This certain is no more a drive,
One would get out to push it on,
But I lack snap.
Should someone bustle to move up close
To pull me out.
I seek a helping hand in vain:
This bitch of a rut is alien.
How I wish I could spit clay and rust
Quits with this very alien rut!
Cause by having thus deepened the trail
Iíve bereft those behind of a break.
Iím getting cold from chilly sweat
Up to the bones,
And then I walk a bit ahead
Along a board.
And here it is, a rimís washed out
By spring thaw streams -
Here is an exit off the rut,
I spit with mud from under tires
Upon this someone elseís rut:
Hey you, going behind, act like me!
Thatís, donít follow the driveway Iím on.
This new rut belongs only to me.
You, get out by the ruts of your own!