don't rest under the sycamore
there's work yet to be done
the road bleeds into the sky
in the rising of the sun
though you're in the middle
of leaving sleep behind in bed
yawns must be drowned in
coffee that pours into your head
don't stop at the sycamore
a bit further you must go
to listen to the masses
cooing to them as they crow
vital are you, the courier
of information and words
even at times you may feel
all the crowing is for the birds
don't get held up at the sycamore
your place is still on east
though tangled, garbled voices
may seem a fearsome beast
steady on past the sycamore
where your gleaming sword awaits
albeit a phone rather than sword
alas, cruel were the fates
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