The Caldera

Criticism, like feasting roadkill crows,
Inelegantly distributes those meats
And such old Pecksniffian horror shows
Lower still more the grace of asphalt streets,
Seemingly a surface where hot lava fell,
And how much lower can hot asphalt go
Then when it cools into Satan's shell
That forever fights Vulcan's spun rubber flow!

Then add to the mix bumper slogans that stick
So that inert car parts can road rage as well.

Add, for flourish, oil slicks to the trick
And you've got a perfect picture of hell.

The horse, it was said, we could not replace
But now the commuter wears the long face.