Like a foolish prophet, I said it would be fine
Travel overnight, get there with lots of time
So with the stars shimmering brightly overhead
Off on our hols we set, when we should’ve been in bed
The best shot to beat the traffic, or so I thought
Soon turned into a nightmare, nerves and tempers fraught
No point in venting anger, just sit and wait and chill
The road will be clear once we get over that hill
Stuck in a line of caravans, none moving but an inch
The rhythm of the engine, moaning, snoring, makes me wince and flinch
A plume of red mist from tail lights in front becomes the final straw
Although with nowhere to go we’ll be stuck here forever more
Pick a point upon the road, I say, somewhere to mark the way
And my thoughts return to clean white sheets, between which I could be lay
The Mansionic Perspective 
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