I stare out at the windmills, fitfully turning, north of a parched
South Platte. Stranded in Sterling, waiting to see if a German
Transmission, a nation of dopes, can be nursed back to health
And made useful again. I'm fairly sure the transmission can be.
You know the Germans. They want things to work, but the dopes,
The dwellers of places like this, so privileged, and whiney, so

Falsely aggrieved, appear to be ruined, beyond repair. Their leaders

Don't make any effort to fix them. The greater their failure,
The closer they cling. In due time, I'll be free to drive out

Of Sterling, past the limp windmills and ankle-deep Platte,
And go back to living a life more fulfilling than these bitter souls
Can conceive.