I write this poem, For truckers alone.

As they hear there loved ones,

On the other end of the phone.

They carry there goods

, To a preset goal.

Don't care what they carry,

Only know they must roll.

White line fever,

I hear it's been called.

When some poor, tired driver,

To sleep has been lulled.

Pushing to fast and hard,

Whachting and following the line

Hoping that when he gets home,

That all will be fine.

But now it has him,

In it's horrible grip.

Could this be the end,

Or even his last trip.

His wheels hit the gravel,

He jerks awake.

Tries to regain control.

His foot on the brakes.

Then he thinks to himself,

About his family waiting at home.

And wonders what drove him,

To endless roam.

He looks to the heaveans,

Please don't let me die.

A truckers last dispatch,

To his dispatcher in the sky.

Written By Edmond Lonewolf

Copyright © Lonewolf Inc 2010 All rights reserved.

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