Classic Poem

Beyond the trees like iron trees,
The painted lamp-posts stand.
The old red road runs like the rust
Upon this iron land.

Cars flat as fish and fleet as birds,
Low-bodied and high-speeded,
Go on their belly like the Snake,
And eat the dust as he did.

But down the red dust never more
Her happy horse-hoofs go.
O, what a road of rust indeed!
O, what a Rotten Row!