This is the journey that never ends,
the seventh ringroad of hell.
You don’t need a map like you don’t need your friends;
this won’t be ending well.
In the place where to eat the food is to spoil it
and the games are strictly for suckers,
in a hidden room at the back of the toilet
is a place marked ‘Here Be Truckers’.
They surface with the faint smell of diesel,
spouting brake fluid from their blowholes,
clutching tabloids like bibles.
What manner of creature is this?

O, sweaty behemoth! Fat Adonis!
Fleshy titan! Wobbling giant!
Obese colossus! Corpulent Atlas!
Hairy leviathan!
Smelly kraken.

They stay up late, they get up early,
they are arrogant and rude,
they are overweight and surly,
but most of all, they’re nude.
Naked truckers! Naked truckers!
You know that you are out of luck as
six of them come through the door
and right behind them seven more,
all trailing oil across the floor
and all that you can think is: sure,
they’ve never seen my face before,
but that’s no reason that they’d roar,
‘You’re ours!’ and throw me to the floor –
that can’t be what they come here for.
That can’t be what they come here for.
And just because they can’t ignore
the fact that I have no rapport
and they’ve not seen my face before,
it doesn’t follow that therefore
I’ll wake one night at almost four
and find them standing at my door,
a-tapping at my chamber door
while I, a quivering wreck, implore,
‘Please, naked truckers, nevermore! Nevermore!’

Naked truckers. O, naked truckers.
Where do they come from? Why so many?
If we’re honest, yes, why any?
What is their function? What are they for?
At every junction we’re joined by more.
They say every man is haunted
by that which he loathes.
In my case it’s truckers.
But why, why, oh god, why
do they not
wear clothes?