Traffic

The landtrain set in motion
That some may call traffic
A chain of cars that go nowhere
And make me feel quite sick!

For it’s impossible to move
To get just anywhere
Whilst waiting in the static queue
I’m pulling out my hair

And blasted traffic lights don’t help
Turning from green to red
To slow the traffic even more
They’re playing with my head

And cones!  Dear Lord, who thought of them
Like centuries in the road
All dressed in red with bands of white
I think I will explode!

Then finally!  We move a bit
An inch! What joy! What glee!
As slowly slowly like a snail
We’re home eventually

Outer London traffic (Photo credit: nikoretro)