Rolling Corndogs

Corndogs... corndogs... very scared.
Things occurred just how they feared.
Checked to see what day it was,
And they cried in grief because
They saw August 15 was near!

So in a flurry they did hurry
To make a plan. O how they scurried!
Papers flew, and ink was splattered--
T'would be symbolic of their trip so battered.
They knew not of the highway's fury.

Without a clue their sticks, they flew.
To cut a hole--they must break through!
At last a hole was punched within
And all without they came from in
And splat! not one, but two.

They could not grieve the grievous loss
Too far to go, to great the cost!
With tears in eyes, they bade farewell,
To the first two corndogs who first fell.
There was no time for burial moss.

And so the band of corndogs ran
Through living room, and under fan.
At last they reached the great blue door,
And stacked themselves upon the floor.
They turned the knob, and fell again!

And once again, more corndogs died.
The others bowed their heads and cried.
But moving on, they knew they must
Reach Georgia's shores before the dusk.
They knew that they could only try.

They rolled along, at great great speed,
They knew the greatness of their need.
The driveway gave them much turmoil,
And one got poisoned by dirty oil.
At last they reached the road of steeds.

They found out soon that modes of travel
Were not of horses clopping gravel.
Indeed the traffic was of cars,
Which rudely smushed our corndog stars.
They squashed as by an iron gavel.

Soon they turned off of Muddy Ford
And yet another was smashed like a toad.
But rolling down Highway 62
They really did not no what else to do.
They steered to the shoulder and rolled and rolled.

They rolled and they rolled and they rolled some more.
To roll this long was such a great bore!
But they had a mission and would not turn back,
They would not and could not steer off of their track.
They wouldn't turn back, no matter how sore.

It wasn't too long till they reached 75
But it was quite late to be taking a drive.
There was enough light to see where they went
But still one slipped down a flood-draining vent.
Poor little Herrety Femmy McNive!

Upon the wide shoulder they still rolled and rolled,
The black-topped pavement began to grow cold.
Their nerves were soon quickened, however, because
A flat-tired semi approached with a buzz.
And he indeed took his very mean toll.

Twas far beyond dusk, and they had not yet come
To the borders of Georgia where was uk's home.
But then, with a joy, they saw the green sign:
"Georgia, sweet Georgia, in only miles nine"!
That sign made all noises a beautiful tone.

At some point, near sunrise, one more corndog lost,
The dwindling batter band came to a cross.
One road went this way, the other went that.
The corndogs, they split then, to get where you're at.
It was the only way they would ever get across.

Then finally, at last, with miles behind,
They rolled down a road of peculiar kind.
Twas empty and hot in the heat of the day,
But there was the house they had come all this way
To see the great king whom they had come to find.

They rolled, all be-battered and tired and worn,
And came to the doorway where one was torn
By a mean-spirited dog, who had naught else to do
Than to kill burdened travelers, for all they'd been through.
There only remained two small dogs of corn.

They managed to squeeze through a tight little crack
Which they found, having run from the dog, in the back.
The finally got through, and having done that,
Another was eaten by a very fat cat.
The one final corndog, alone on a mat.

Exhausted and tired, yet as thrilled as could be,
The great corndog king he would finally see!
But searching around, he wished he could blurk:
The great corndog king was, alas, at work!
In grief the last corndog did fall to his knees.

And so he did perish, in failure and pain,
Yet his great adventure was not all in vain.
He died on the floor of your palacial house,
And as he did fall a note fell from a pouch.
Twas a letter for uk, from corndogs quite sane.

"Hyppy brtdya?" it read, in the worst of grammar,
But the heart of the thing was all that did matter.
However you probably never did see it,
For if I'm correct, your fish did eat it.
But it's the thought that counts.

-a poem by Sam vdH