Parade Route Sanctification Drift

An old map from ninety-eight rose
From a drawer full of folded old prose.
Once they called it “the proper,”
Permits mattered much softer,
And detours were treated like foes.

The detour round roadwork looked wise,
Till tradition got tears in its eyes.
“That turn is profane.
We’ve not blessed that new lane.”
Said adults in reflective supplies.

They argued curb cuts were too thin
For the banners’ symbolic chagrin.
Which is noble as hell,
Till the ambulance yells,
“Move your sacred-ass float line back in.”

The case stayed deliciously stuck:
Old routes simply looked more like luck.
No one wants to be named
As the year it got tamed,
And the parade started giving a fuck.

The detour was functionally sound,
But heritage fiercely frowned.
“That pothole is blessed,”
The chairman confessed,
And deployed the local bloodhound.

The pavement was formally filed
Under “Traditions of the Wild.”
When the ambulance came,
We sorted its name
And let it be properly exiled.

The map from the nineties became
A scroll with a holy-like name.
The crossing guard wept
While the detour line slept
And the asphalt accepted the blame.

The logical route was ignored,
As old paper maps were adored.
The binder was clear,
The traffic was near,
And the permit was slowly unmoored.