bored?

read this first:no more backpacking

If all the world and road were young, And truth in every tourist's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee in one's own groove.
Time drives the bus from bump to bould-er , When gendarme rage with guns on should-er; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complain of cares to come.
The showers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy bed of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon trap, soon quicken, soon are blinding, In comfort ripe, in sloth are binding.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs, All these in me no means can move To live with thee in one's own groove
But could youth last and love still breed, Had visas no date nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move to live with thee in one's own groove.

all apologies to mr. raleigh