Glory days of a thirty-three year old god called over—
The morning glories thin to a haze
And the Fourth of July turns into the sleep of dusk in
The hotel beside the road—
But when you get up, there is your family, and breakfast;
And no matter where she is, there are more trucks to
Be loaded, the last of the fireworks to pack away:
Yes, the holiday is over for another year:
But there are so many billboards peppering the road
To sell almost anything—and going into the panhandle
You can enjoy sunlight, and nude entertainment,
Until, finally, you find your as way into another
Disney World.
Robert Rorabeck
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/disney-world-2/
