Yupa

The hitchhiker does not go gently;
If he did, he would not complain about his shins.

The hitchhiker does not go gently;
And yet, he carries on.

The hitchhiker is in search of a campfire,
One that burns all year round.
Alas, the only things the poor man can find are
Embers, ash, and dying wood.

He has tried hearths and inns;
He bought an electric stove;
Shovelled a coal fire,
Even the brick oven that he owned;
He piled up the catalogues before installing radiators,
He’s burned through lanterns, torches, candles, and incinerators.
Each one was far too weak of light and warmth,
So the hitchhiker does not go gently anymore.

His expression is vacant,
It has all but invaded his eyes.
He weighs up the heavens,
Decides the constellations to be kind.

It has been quite the ordeal, he says,
We plucked them one by one
And planted them in concrete to grow metropolises.
We stopped looking up, he says.
We began to walk around like we were conquerors of galaxies;
We are neon-eating, sugar-catching, pixel-nicking heathens,
He says.

The last refuge for lightness
Must be somewhere remote in nature.
So, the hitchhiker is in two minds.
For he knows if he goes looking,
He will find loneliness.
There is nothing but loneliness in distant space and long stretches of time.
His discovery would start a gold rush, he says.
So, the hitchhiker thinks gently.

He could build a rocket —
The verdict is quite the same:
Those red giants collapsed eons ago
Into embers, comets, dying cores.
The hitchhiker just wants a campfire that burns all year round.
Is that too much to ask?
He has inquired a few times already.
But frost grows fat on a rolling stone,
And he gets snow everywhere, especially when gentle.
So the hitchhiker freezes alone.