Twas Freya’s Day, Cone Man ranged
About his worksite, checking cones.
Confirming nothing had changed
While he’d rested weary bones.
Different cones than found
In Elysian Fields, he sighed.
Pavement he would pound,
Control traffic he tried.
Work ranged far and wide,
Many places he would see.
Standing by remote roadside,
Financial freedom was not free.
Freedom, nevertheless,
From navel-gazing,
Angst ridden stress,
And bored grazing.
Labour leavening boredom,
Senses heightened by danger.
Spare time now a precious freedom,
The lot of the Cone Ranger.
© Craig Turney
Encore!
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