Made every mistake there is to make.
Been stuck at the fork in the road.
Wondering which direction to take.
How to decipher the code.

I've chosen the left.
The middle.
The right.
And every which way in between.
You'd think that eventually I'd get it right.
Why,
even a brainless machine
unable to ponder or contemplate
will still,
unerringly,
steer.
Life's myriad paths all terminate
just a short distance from here.

There's a little white sign,
(by default or design?)
says "Open on holidays".

Don't need reservations.
There's never a line.
I'll see ya there one of these days.

I'll be sittin' out front
in a little white chair.
Waitin' for friends to drop by.

A little white beard.
A little white hair.
Tellin' a little white lie.