The narrow dusty road seems to bade me step in
Where rustling leaves touch streaks of sun in motion
I hear the sounds of an old pick up as it takes a spin
Down on route 66, amid the hum-drum of commotion
Curled ever-so quietly between the rows of yellow corn
Laced in curves of sifted dust and noon day sun
My thoughts turn as spinning wheels since early morn
Toward olden poets, of Ravens black, and hearts forlorn
They talk of spring rains in the Valley of Bamboo
Where the hotels are all white and the days are all dreary
Here, above flowing rows of green, the skies are steel-blue
But as I listen to the wind's whistle, I sense something eerie
But wait, Ravens won't tap, tap, tap, here in Corn Row
So I will stay here drifting in closets of silken thought
An embryo of time, where the air is sterile from eons ago
And nothing whispers, nevermore, nevermore, here inside Corn Row
![](https://imagizer.imageshack.com/img923/2388/OPNL7m.jpg")