By Baz Cann
The hustle and hurry of every day,
Demonstrated on the motorway,
As engines roar at maximum power,
To save a second in each hour.
Back and forth those drivers do scurry,
No reason at all for their manic hurry,
Brake lights and hazards then get employed,
With motorists in queues not overjoyed.
A lack of judgement stops the flow
Of traffic with no-where to go,
Blue lights and sirens, all to heed,
Come racing past at wonderous speed.
Police, Fire, and medics surround
Metal that's bent into the ground,
To separate one from the next,
While stranded drivers feel most vexed.
Recovery men are sent as well,
To release folk from parked-up hell,
But not for them, you must agree,
That no-where fast is where you'd be.
But there's a certain type of folk,
Who see the whole thing as a joke,
Get in the way, and do not move,
And so frayed tempers don't improve !
And consider the recovery man,
Clearing your way's his simple plan,
Despite the inability
Of vehicles to move easily !
Avoid obstructing needlessly,
So it is easier to see,
For in the truck, to tow away,
You might just find me there, today !