With trembling hands on the wheel,

I thought I’d follow a yellow brick road

in my Hudson Terraplane—I sidestep

teeth-filled potholes and fields of fire—

too bad this car can’t fly.

Homesick in my gut, driving day and night

like the Pony Express. I promised myself:

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom

of night will prevent me from getting home.

I’m alone in a world that’s a gaping mouth,

with hungry monster sharks circling around,

ready to swallow me up, hook, line and sinker.

Home is where nothing ever hurts anymore,

and I can bask in the adulation of Mother.

My Rosicrucian GPS, compass of my soul,

is bound to show me the way home.