He sat there in the traffic jam.
Oh God! His blood was boiling.
Before his eyes the red mist swam,
His engine needed oiling.
He hadn’t moved for half an hour,
Around him cars stood static.
Expression menacing and dour,
His fury was emphatic.
Beside him, in this ghostly scene,
Unfathomable and hellish,
A taximan began to clean
His outsized nose with relish.
The traffic light turned back to red
Way, way off in the distance.
He smote his fist against his head
And questioned God’s existence.
The flames of hell were once described
Long, long ago by Dante,
But Dublin gridlock, thus prescribed –
It really ups the ante.
Then, just as he’s about to burst,
And lose the plot completely,
A Navan accent, well-rehearsed
Comes tripping o’er him sweetly.
“There’s queues five miles from Carlow Town,
In Cahir, the traffic’s crawling.
In Waterford, the bridge fell down,
And Arklow is appalling.
‘The traffic lights are stuck on red
In Galway city centre.
The Jack Lynch Tunnel’s blocked, it’s said,
And not a car can enter.
‘In Cavan, hail and hurricanes
Have caused some road subsidence,
A landslide’s blocking several lanes –
Police are seeking guidance.
‘There’s spiders on the road in Naas,
Giraffes in Termonfeckin,
Traffic’s at a snail’s pace
Because of rubber-neckin.’”
Entranced he sat, spellbound by such
A ducet Navan accent,
His anger melted by its touch,
A spoken-word relaxant.
“Who cares about this curséd jam?”
He asked himself the question.
“Do I really give a damn
About this great congestion?
‘Why worry if your gasket breaks?
Why bow to apoplexy?
For Nicola Hudson even makes
The traffic news sound sexy.
‘She’s like a wet cloth on your brow,
A pint in scorching weather,
A swishy tail upon a cow,
Or all of them together.
Oh yes, the folly of my ways
Sweet Nicola has shown me.
And now the flames no longer blaze,
And nevermore will own me.”
Thus becalmed, with peace anew,
Plucked from the fires of Hades,
He ploughed serenely right into
The back of a Mercedes.
Oh God! His blood was boiling.
Before his eyes the red mist swam,
His engine needed oiling.
He hadn’t moved for half an hour,
Around him cars stood static.
Expression menacing and dour,
His fury was emphatic.
Beside him, in this ghostly scene,
Unfathomable and hellish,
A taximan began to clean
His outsized nose with relish.
The traffic light turned back to red
Way, way off in the distance.
He smote his fist against his head
And questioned God’s existence.
The flames of hell were once described
Long, long ago by Dante,
But Dublin gridlock, thus prescribed –
It really ups the ante.
Then, just as he’s about to burst,
And lose the plot completely,
A Navan accent, well-rehearsed
Comes tripping o’er him sweetly.
“There’s queues five miles from Carlow Town,
In Cahir, the traffic’s crawling.
In Waterford, the bridge fell down,
And Arklow is appalling.
‘The traffic lights are stuck on red
In Galway city centre.
The Jack Lynch Tunnel’s blocked, it’s said,
And not a car can enter.
‘In Cavan, hail and hurricanes
Have caused some road subsidence,
A landslide’s blocking several lanes –
Police are seeking guidance.
‘There’s spiders on the road in Naas,
Giraffes in Termonfeckin,
Traffic’s at a snail’s pace
Because of rubber-neckin.’”
Entranced he sat, spellbound by such
A ducet Navan accent,
His anger melted by its touch,
A spoken-word relaxant.
“Who cares about this curséd jam?”
He asked himself the question.
“Do I really give a damn
About this great congestion?
‘Why worry if your gasket breaks?
Why bow to apoplexy?
For Nicola Hudson even makes
The traffic news sound sexy.
‘She’s like a wet cloth on your brow,
A pint in scorching weather,
A swishy tail upon a cow,
Or all of them together.
Oh yes, the folly of my ways
Sweet Nicola has shown me.
And now the flames no longer blaze,
And nevermore will own me.”
Thus becalmed, with peace anew,
Plucked from the fires of Hades,
He ploughed serenely right into
The back of a Mercedes.
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