There are countless other waiting to take your place.
You tried to follow the highway out, but
the headlights blinded off your necklace spelling
noli me tangere, and now the only part of you
going sixty out of this two-horse town
is the fur that caught in the grille that hit you.
You never had a big enough spread
to be a proper Goliath, anyway, and besides,
nobody believes in white harts these days.