Childhood trips were oft painful things,
Even those small jaunts to the store.
Listening as a sibling sings
Made you vow to go nevermore.

The pain, the pain, but not from song,
But from bruised arms and wounded prides
When a punch buggy drove along
Causing large bruises on our hides

Should it be that we were not first
To see it and strike, and even then
There were times you were reimbursed.
Would this misery never end?

Were we hit again, we would cry;
No boy should be seen doing such.
That, in truth, is the reason why
We asked, “Are we there yet?” so much.

It had naught to do with the way
The ability to drive morphs
Your mind. What seemed to take all day
To reach, now but five minutes dwarfs.

Lo, herein lays perception’s key:
Five minutes of what you control
Are hours of captivity
When you’re a prisoner in soul.