Pointed goals, endmarks, places to be
At certain times, recordable dates,
Unlike chandalar, at-large wanderers
Never content, always searching,
Crisscrossing wildlands willy nilly,
Counter to Mater Nature’s
Programmed destination drones,
Timetables built into their genes
And souls, so tightly bound
They have no choice but obey,
Even if fate means oblivion,
Like Jews in boxcars being shipped
East and north, with Aryan efficiency.