There are four
Of them,
Or maybe more,
Driving round in some state—
Though quite what state I’m not sure.
They come across a round-about,
And round,
And round,
And round,
And round,
And round about they go,
Then round
And round,
And round,
And round,
And round again they go.
Then realising
Perhaps this ain’t the best
Thing to do,
In reverse
They go round
And round,
And round,
And round,
And round,
And round about
The round-about.
And back again,
Round,
And round,
And round,
And straight into the front of a brand-new blue Commodore.
"What the hell d’you do that for?!"
Cries the owner, rubbing his sore
Neck.
They all strut out
And begin to shout,
Fulfilling their obligations
Of exchanging obscenities
And far-flung allegations,
Till a cop
Comes
And puts a stop
To it all.
He looks round
And round
The round-about
Once,
Nods twice,
Glances at his notebook thrice,
Raises a disapproving eyebrow at the fluffy dice
Hanging from the Commodore’s rear-view mirror—
He dislikes such toys—
And to our heroes says
"Look boys,
Youse can go,
This guy’s so—"
And here he makes the drinky-drinky motion with his hand
"He reckons youse were
Driving round
And round
The round-about
Backwards!"
They nod wisely—
"You just can’t account for some people"—
And shake their heads sadly,
Then drive off madly,
Keen to tell the fam’ly
That justice didn’t do too badly
Today.
May 2001