Two tracks leading nowhere in the bush
Miles from anywhere, I rolled the window
Down and had a look up the first one,
Considered the position briefly and
Said I preferred the other one. My father
Looked up from his form guide and asked me why,
I said because it's not this one. You talk
To him, mother, he said. I can't deal
With him, the boy's a bloody idiot.
There's no need for language said my mother.
While the matter was discussed I climbed
A very large redgum out over the river
And in a sense I never quite came down.
The great thing about being up a tree
Is that you're not going along a track.
by Alain Frost
Don't look for this poet on Wikipedia because I suspect it is one of the many parodic (is that a word? If not, I just coined it) aliases of the humourist, John Clarke, New Zealand-born, but resident in Australia for several decades now.
This poem was originally published in The Even More Complete Book of Australian Verse.