ONE FOR THE ROAD
True, down the highway, sure enough,
The facts of life are just as tough
And men beyond the circling crests
Beat one another, or their breasts.
All hamlets promise lads their fill
Of local and peculiar ill −
But though the bottles flaunt new shapes
The drink's familiar, sour grapes.
Better the devil that you greet
An old acquaintance in the street
Than credit what false guides allege
And go west, over Wenlock Edge.
Lie safe, then, on that native heath
You must hereafter lie beneath:
There stick you fast and stick you sound
Until a shovel shifts your ground.
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