Cones

There are sentries on our roads
All dressed in red and white
That line the highways mile on mile
Without giving insight
As to a reason why they’re there
For in their loyal rows
The empty passage t’other side
Leaves us out of the know
For it appears they simply stand
On guard biding their time
In conical formation and
With no reason and no rhyme!
Saluting all the traffic
As it just trundles by
The cones directing queues of cars
To jam! Oh how I sigh!

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