A Fable of Success

 
A camel safari and a bright red Ferrari, were parked on the road to success.
The car door was open, the salesman hope’n, I’d honor his pitch with a yes.

But the camels were braying, their owners praying, I’d hire their service instead.
Sounding like parrots, proclaiming their merits, playing to the thoughts in my head.

Not being subtle, each had the rebuttal, for whatever the other would say.
Extremely persuasive, clever and evasive, like many universities today.

One had great speed, and would surely succeed, given the favored terrain.
But a smelly old camel is a sure footed mammal, and excels in a shortage of rain.

As long as there’s fuel, Testarossas rule, but caravans carry their own supplies.
One must ponder the road out yonder, and the nature of the journey that lies.

Aesop’s famous fables, would turn the tables, and often end in surprise.
The tortoise and the hare, an unlikely pair, once raced to the rabbit’s demise.

The Ferrari was acquired by a man inspired, by the glitter, the gleam and the glow.
The caravan was consigned to a man resigned, to a journey that was tedious and slow.

The Ferrari got started and soon departed, speeding off in search of it’s goal.
The camel was prodded and slowly it plodded, in a much more conservative role.

Both covered the miles in their separate styles, each knowing the other had lost.
In their pursuits with their ties and their suits, gambling whatever the costs.

Many signs were ignored,  routes were explored, but the journey was over too soon.
When the road less traveled, suddenly unraveled, the Ferrari ended up in a dune.

As the roadway dwindled, he swore he’d been swindled, yelling at the top of his voice.
“They said I wouldn’t be slowed because of the road.” Blaming everyone else for his choice.

Meanwhile the uneven lands and the burning sands, supported the trek of the beast.
The long caravan, and one lonely man, reluctantly heading to the East.

Every day was the same, with barren terrain, with nothing to change the view,
Except a derelict car, like a wounded scar, that once was shiny and new.

As the going was slow and supplies getting low, the caravan was stopped by the sea.
Stranded on the shore, the land was no more. Success was not to be.

Both journeys dead ended, their captains offended through nobodies fault but their own.
For every farmer agrees, you reap from the trees, of the seeds that you’ve actually sown.

So what is concluded when success is eluded? Is there no way to insure a clear bet?
When traveling to there, it is better by air.  The best way would be the Lear jet.

Poem Stranger