Ode to the Motorist

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Where do you go to City Driver?

To the Tune of Peter Sarstedt's "Where do you go to My Lovely"

You bark at cyclists that pass you; And you snarl at the traffic in front;
Your blood pressure goes through the sunroof; As you narrowly miss a rear shunt;
Yes you do...

You live in a great clogged-up city; With buses and bikes to enjoy;
Yet when you think about doing some shopping; You jump in your 4x4 toy.
For a laugh, a ha ha ha

But where do you go to City Driver?; When you are stuck in your jam;
Tell me just what were you thinking; Wouldn't a bike be a much better plan?

In the week your wheels sit there idle; the road is your parking bay;
So it's bumper to bumper outside school yards; but who cares if there's kids in your way;


When you go on your weekend excursions; You race to the end of the street;
Then you sit in the traffic for hours; As the fuel gauge goes into retreat;
Like the kids, and the bikes...

And when the snow falls you're found in St Moritz; Where you wallow in metres of white;
Out there your jeep would be handy; But instead you have taken a flight;


So where do you go to City Driver?; Boxed in with your air-con on freeze;
On a bike cool air comes as standard; Why don't you go and sample the breeze?


Your name is heard in high places; The world is designed to your whim;
But we still build you more clogged up highways; for cars that our cities can't fit in;

But at least you're content, City Driver; as that red light gets achingly near;
Thousands of pounds worth of vanity; Still the bike cruises past and pulls clear.

I imagine the backs streets of London; kids playing outside their abode;
Jeeps confined to the country; and the bikes become kings of the road.

So look into my eyes, City Driver; and remember just where you are;
To be healthy and happy in London; get out of that bloody great car.

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