A Meeting With a Motorbike

I was stuck in the back of a small car again, Not enough air, raging heat, suffocating sun, Thinking of physical exercise, freedom and poetry, And of the French and their liberty run. I spoke English sometimes with a speech problem, But I always spoke French without, So stars collided when a man on a motorbike, Pulled up, and in French directed us with clout. It was in Ibiza where we were holidaying, Having persuaded mum and dad to go, But being so confined in that car distressed me, So I was relieved then, ‘cos French I did know. When I journeyed out for walks on my own, In my blue electric wheelchair so serving, I had conversations with the locals in French, And for me they were their smiles reserving.