[Douglas G. Brown]

Northern byways less traveled,
Though graded and graveled,
And solid the rest of the year;
In the spring become monsters I fear.

With the equinox vernal,
Conditions infernal
Create a slow boil in my blood;
It's the boreal season of mud.

Moose sink to their bellies,
And I'll lose my Wellies
When the roads are a glutinous flood
Of seemingly bottomless mud.

Should I ever expire
As I trudge through the mire,
I’ve come to the end of my luck;
Just let me sink under the muck.