Cars
Mr. Ford, why did you make
The cars which cause such deep heartache?...
From MOTs to punctured tyre,
Was that a gun, or did I misfire?
Parking tickets, yellow lines;
Wheelclamps, countless crushing fines;
Insurance costs, CCTV
Congestion Charge for you and me;
Broken mirrors, cracks and scrapes-
Stolen cars, false number plates;
Big bills from men I cannot trust,
Who warn of camshaft cracks and rust;
Some love to drive with beer can filled;
‘Who cares if I, -or they-, are killed?’
Road-rage, shouting, broken glass:
Some cannot let an insult pass.
The traffic jams we see each day
Seem made to wear the clutch away.
‘Was that a space that just went by?
Or must I drive ‘till our tank’s dry?’
The eyesore of the breaker’s yard
With twisted metal, dull and marred.
There’s poisoning from lead-filled plumes;
Monoxide clouds, and choking fumes.
Excuse me for the way I talk:
But Mr. Ford… today I’ll walk!
Copyright © Gavin Childress | Year Posted 2015
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