Chariots of Ire
by Ray Fuller
For that national
convention, I’d give little thanks,
Namely communal holidays tied up with
banks.
Like infantrymen jump to the bugler’s
shrill call,
When they down computers, then
so must we all.
And like lemmings to water, we rush to
the coast,
A display of conforming of which you
could boast.
With inevitable consequence – quite
certain I am
That we don’t end at seaside, but up
in a jam.
Then it’s ‘snarled-up at
Wapping’ and ‘backed up at
Brent’,
Vehicular standstill throughout County
Kent.
They start honking and hooting and
ranting and raving
And shaking their fists – I don’t
think they’re waving.
They’re abandoning cars on a choked-up
M2,
All fed up just sitting there stopped in
the queue.
It’s a twenty-mile tailback on M25,
They’re air-dropping food to keep
drivers alive.
The AA say ‘sorry we cannot assist’,
From our journey the police urge us all
to desist.
Alternative routes cannot e’en be
suggested
For they’re without doubt, yes you
guessed it, congested.
But it’s holiday time and the
weather is fine,
So we’ve jumped in our cars, and
joined a long line:
Immutable English vacation obsession
To eke out our leisure in endless
procession.
I know it seems pointless when no-one can
move,
But it just goes to show how much our
cars we love.
And it proves the great truth for which
sages did strive:
What’s important ’s the journey,
and not to arrive. |
|
