King of the Post Roads

Well, hell, his name is Jules. He's five foot

one. But don't let the measure fool anyone. He's climbing round

his unit, quick and sly, like a spider in a web up in the

sky. Every strap is tied, every corner known. That wagon ain't

metal. It's his rolling home. Mirror set, coffee strong.

Sunrise glow, keys turn once and the diesel roars Post to move

and miles to burn. Another long night. No time to learn.

He's the king of the post roads. Hear the engine roar.