We live in a small cul-de-sac,
If you drive up, you must turn back,
But turning round is such a curse,
It’s better just to hit reverse.
The reason for this situation
In this suburban conurbation,
Is simply, as my wife remarked
To do with all the traffic parked.
Up on the verge, along the side
Of this road only twelve feet wide.
It’s like a car park in the street
Where all the Fords and Opels meet.
Clios, Escorts and Meganes,
Micras, Puntos, transit vans,
And one big truck with “Irish Pride”
Emblazoned boldly on the side.
God knows, if there should be a fire,
Somebody will perhaps expire,
Before the fire-engine can
Negotiate each car and van.
The salient thing that puzzles me
About this car menagerie –
The motor vehicle amount
Must far outweigh the human count.