I hesitate to even call this poetry; it's really just wordplay. No meter, just some rhyme and rhythm. The idea came out of the blue and I just had to write it. So here goes nothing.
Mike hitchhiked on a passing hour.
He hooked a thumb, and up one came, and carried him away.
"Where to?" The voice said, in a tone black as pitch. "Let me out," replied Mike, "You're the angel of death!"
Some of us, we sojourn; some of us, we crawl. Some of us run as fast we can, and some don't run at all.
Well heck, this life is a crazy race, and Hitchhike Mike, he knows it. 'Cuz some of us win and some of us lose, and some of us never left home.
Hitchin' is dangerous business, it is, but Mike, he knows how to handle himself. And then, win or lose, well it's you who's to choose, and HItchhike Mike, he knows it.