Y reg Corsa .. a poem

[Sir_Nigel 10]

I know, I can clearly foresee

that your car will be wrapped round a tree.

I don’t channel mystical forces -

it’s what happens to lowlife in Corsas

who endanger, disturb and annoy

in their polished and pimped pride and joy.

 

I don’t need to hear your deafening bass

or see the blank look on your weasely face,

sometimes your car

says what you are –

I’m a little bit fick

and I drive like a dick

but it may tell you more

like what fate has in store.

With you it’s a tree

(or a lamp post) I see.

 

A fairly innocuous bend

…probably racing a friend

…over the limit I guess

…and the world will have one moron less.

 

Bouquets will be laid there for you

and the girl you were driving with too.

Your mother will grieve for her son

whilst demanding that ‘something’ is done

and in spite of the ban that you had

she’ll insist you were such a nice lad.

And the poor girl’s parents will mourn

whilst cursing the day you were born.

 

 

Dead flowers tied to a tree -

that’s all that your future will be,

a sad little shrine by the road

where you fatefully reaped what you sowed.