Making Tracks Poem by James O'Donnell

High on a little hill,
We found tracks with a will.
Right there in the dust,
In a hurry or bust.
Tiny insect feet in a pair,
A railroad track to no where,
The tracks did crisscross,
But, where was the boss?
There were crazy eight's
Without any debates,
And a few curlicues,
Without any clues.
And some great loop-do-loops,
No one was using hoops.
Is this the human race,
As seen from outer space?
In our whole universe,
Are we without a verse?