The beam bridge, seeming to be the ridge spanner.
All manner of planks gets employed under the banner
of progress, eighty-five yards the max.
Nobody plummets to the bottom of ravines intact.
And so the truss bridge must be seen as an improvement,
cantilever even receiving the translucent
inducement to get wrecked (high-tech)
and watch the Firth of Forth fall in the drink, one should expect.
And so you step with the arch bridge, point to every zenith,
say that gravity’s smart. You settle stones just like a genius,
but I’ve seen this tumble like crumbs from Cookie’s lips.
The aqueducts no longer seem to irrigate worth spit.
The suspension bridge could go like seven thousand feet
but it’s seven plus one from here to where I want to be
so I free up the styrofoam peanuts that I’ve been packing.
If I’m lacking in boats, it’s ‘cause I’m fearful of the Kraken.
Now I’m stacking little floaters and I’m banding them together;
I could travel in this manner over water to wherever.
If the bonds hold tight, let’s take a hike to Honolu[lu].
Then you’ll be whistling the praises of the float-bridge too.