Oh woe is me. Woe resides within my house.
For we planned and anticipated with joy the Riding of Highway 242,
Currently closed to cars And open only to bikes.
Truly do I tell you, we planned, even unto the buying of Picky Bars and hearty breakfast.
Bikes were loaded with glee onto the racks on the roof
Of the Beetle which heretofore had never been sick a day in its life.
Such woe was to strike as has never been known in a Beetle before.
For still 32 miles from Sisters, our erstwhile starting point,
Where they do have delicious sandwiches,
As I drove down the highway, the red light shaped like a battery
Flashed before mine eyes.
It flashed, I tell you, it flashed, and as it flashed, I did utter,
"Uht oh, that's not normal" as my power steering cut out.
I didst pull over, and the engine ceased to run.
I calleth the tow truck, and after waiting for two hours
In the volcanic red dirt, where we considered the meaning of life
And drank our Gatorade,
We were towed home where we rode our bikes home to get the other car.
Why, cars, oh why must you die when I take such good care of you?
Even though I haven't washed you since the fall...
You still get regular oil changes and now old-age checkups.
Truly do I weep much, for my beloved Beetle is sick,
And the 242 highway and my dreamed-of summit at the Dee Wright observatory
Remains but a pipe dream, drifting away in a clouded Oregon sky.