The Porsches of Moreton

I train, I train and I train so hard

Pedaling and pedaling always on guard

The Porsche’s of Moreton fly round the bend

Towards the City and the money they tend

They swerve and swear at the cyclist in Lycra

A foot to the floor, if you ride they don’t like ya!

A woman in a Range with her name on the plate

Has a hair appointment and can’t be late

Two tons of metal brush my seven pound frame

She’s texting or dialing or playing a game

She wants to crush candy or may be a rider

She wants a brain, but there’s not one inside her

Then white van man hurtles up from behind

Neglecting to signal to be extra unkind

The lorry behind him doesn’t know I’m here

And the driver is speeding with a phone to his ear

So now I lay alone in this ditch

And the greedy, the morons, and each silly bitch

None of them care because they don’t know me

But my children wonder why I’m not home for tea.

by Peter Sear