Sitting in a line of traffic,
Inching forward slowly,
My language is intensely graphic,
Blasphemous, unholy.
My pressure gauge is in the red,
My rad is boiling over,
Angels always fear to tread
Too near my clapped-out Rover.
The driver of the car in front
Has left a little gap,
I’d like to give him such a shunt
And give him such a slap.
The driver of the car behind
Is hooting like an owl,
I shout back crossly, is he blind?
And give my meanest scowl.
Then just as things can’t get much worse,
At eight fifteen precisely,
There comes the soothing traffic nurse.
‘Tis Lisa speaking nicely.
The fog is bad in Baltimore,
The Jack Lynch Tunnel’s static,
The traffic lights in Inchicore
Are desperately erratic.
A lorry heading for Maynooth
While full of sugar, slammed
Into a truck of forest fruit,
And now the road is jammed.
At Blanchardstown, the motorway
Has long ago ceased moving,
And roadworks up in Ballybay
Are slowly disimproving.
There’s termites on the road in Naas,
Giraffes in Termonfeckin,
But warning signs are now in place,
So stop your rubber-neckin’.
A UFO in Kinnegad
Has blocked the road completely-
But who cares if the news is bad
When given out so sweetly?
Her soft voice soothes the wildest rage –
The AA’s brightest flower,
Though only thirty years of age,
Wields most amazing power.
She’s like a wet cloth on a brow,
A drink in boiling weather,
A large fly-swatter on a cow,
Or all of them together.
How many road-rage crimes are foiled
By Lisa’s lilting accent?
When tempers fray and blood is boiled,
She acts as a relaxant.
A legend on the radio
In every Irish region,
Where she directs us, we shall go,
Her devotees are legion.
And so a metaphorical kiss
From those no longer shirty,
We wish her all the best on this,
The day that she turns thirty.
Inching forward slowly,
My language is intensely graphic,
Blasphemous, unholy.
My pressure gauge is in the red,
My rad is boiling over,
Angels always fear to tread
Too near my clapped-out Rover.
The driver of the car in front
Has left a little gap,
I’d like to give him such a shunt
And give him such a slap.
The driver of the car behind
Is hooting like an owl,
I shout back crossly, is he blind?
And give my meanest scowl.
Then just as things can’t get much worse,
At eight fifteen precisely,
There comes the soothing traffic nurse.
‘Tis Lisa speaking nicely.
The fog is bad in Baltimore,
The Jack Lynch Tunnel’s static,
The traffic lights in Inchicore
Are desperately erratic.
A lorry heading for Maynooth
While full of sugar, slammed
Into a truck of forest fruit,
And now the road is jammed.
At Blanchardstown, the motorway
Has long ago ceased moving,
And roadworks up in Ballybay
Are slowly disimproving.
There’s termites on the road in Naas,
Giraffes in Termonfeckin,
But warning signs are now in place,
So stop your rubber-neckin’.
A UFO in Kinnegad
Has blocked the road completely-
But who cares if the news is bad
When given out so sweetly?
Her soft voice soothes the wildest rage –
The AA’s brightest flower,
Though only thirty years of age,
Wields most amazing power.
She’s like a wet cloth on a brow,
A drink in boiling weather,
A large fly-swatter on a cow,
Or all of them together.
How many road-rage crimes are foiled
By Lisa’s lilting accent?
When tempers fray and blood is boiled,
She acts as a relaxant.
A legend on the radio
In every Irish region,
Where she directs us, we shall go,
Her devotees are legion.
And so a metaphorical kiss
From those no longer shirty,
We wish her all the best on this,
The day that she turns thirty.
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