The highway,
cosmic beltway,
bureaucrats bellow,
over planets in the way.

Piles of paper,
in legible legalese,
readable, yes,
but understandable,
never,

Budgets created,
and defended,
but never met,
as laughter rings,
from contractors.

The restaurant
across the galaxy,
where answers 42,
are debated over
gargle blasters.

Towels hang on every chair,
feel free to take one,
as you raise your thumb,
to the sky and hope,
for the best.