Speccie Road Rage
 

Nobody won anything for a fable, as far as I could see, but I can't remember anybody trying. Anyway, this week's looks better. Curses are a splendid thing.

No. 2622: Road rage
You are invited to submit a rhymed curse penned by a motorist on a cyclist, a cyclist on a pedestrian or a pedestrian on either (maximum 16 lines). Entries to Competition 2622 by midday on 11 November or email lucy@spectator.co.uk. Email is preferable in view of the current postal disruption.

A pity motorists can't curse pedestrians, useless, dithering, superfluous things.

As a licensed pedestrian, I take offense :D That ought to put me in the mood for proper curse-making.

MY WAY OF SAYING BEEP

You jerk! That's just a bicycle!
If you had half a brain,
you'd know you can't keep up with cars,
so get out of my lane!

I don't care if your name is Lance
and you're a great big star.
You may have won the Tour d'France,
but you can't beat a car,

so pull aside and let me pass!
I haven't got all day.
Just move your Lycra-covered ass
and get out of my way!

This is probably too irreverent for the Speccie, but as Marion says elsewhere, what the hey.

Pedestrian's Metrical Psalm

How long, O Lord, wilt Thou endure him? he
that loometh o'er me in his SUV
and beareth down upon me? O send down
Thy wrath and smite with plagues the smug-faced clown
who nattereth on his cell phone all the day
and granteth not pedestrians' right of way.
Beset with speed traps all his ways at once!
Afflict his every route with radar guns,
with troopers hid in hedge and bush and thicket,
and wield the justice of thy speeding ticket.
That we may know how righteous are Thy graces,
deprive him, Lord, of any parking spaces
(in all such car parks as he wand'reth in)
with room enough for his Leviathan.

Not at all, Maryann. I think it will do very well. Put it in and see. I'd bet on it.

Me again. Here's a curse. To tell you the truth I have nothing against cyclists. How could I when the divine Boris cycles like anything? But for the sake of Art...

Road Rage

MALEDICO, late and early,
In the fiery furnace lobbing
Cultivation’s antipode:

Cyclists, scrofulous and surly,
Ring-a-dinging, bare knees bobbing,
In the latest yahoo mode,

Hurtling through the hurly-burly,
Crotches sweating, thighs a-throbbing,
Heedless of the Highway Code,

Yawping youth and gurning girly,
Slobbering yobbos, grunting, gobbing
Desecrators of the road.

Seize them by the short and curly,
Drown their shrieks and stanch their sobbing,
Terminate each little toad.

So my verse is. So my curse is.

Roger,
Don't forget that the Speccie is English and they say "arse" which in English mouths is a rhyme for "pass". Be brave and spell "ass" as "arse". It will improve your chances. I love it.

(And all of the rest. I haven't even started yet.)

Whenever at my back I’d hear
Your two-wheeled chariot whizzing near,
Your loudly bellowed, Hey, look out!
I’d pray for you, you Lycra’d lout,
Some close encounter with a ditch,
Forgetting wishes have a hitch.

Weeks, now, you’ve walked, recuperating;
Stuck in one gear, and always prating
Of micro-fibered frames and wheels,
Italian helmets, gel-pak meals;
Please, go - rejoin Hell’s pelleton;
You’re more absurd off-bike, than on.

May your tires grow soft, as your seat grows hard,
And your prostate large as your self-regard.
Your cycle’s fixed, go take a whirl,
Long may you sit on it—and twirl!

Frank

May your organic bread be stale
And may your hempen trousers split
And may the bike seat where you sit
Leave bruises on your traveller’s tail.
May snarling dogs attack your feet
And narrow squeaks inflict your route.
May lorries follow in pursuit,
May parking cars block every street.
May your way home be strewn with rice
And lentils, may your bike collapse,
May oil and water cause mishaps,
Because you are so bloody nice!
I curse you for your priggish stand,
Your implications that my car,
Is driven by a bad bourgeois.
May all you cycling saints be damned.

Sidewalks

Pedestrians, I wouldn’t use the sidewalk
if I were you. It’s not a place where I’d walk.
The sidewalk’s where I ride my mountain bike.
So if you’re on the sidewalk, take a hike!
Roads are for cars and sidewalks are for me.
If you are on the sidewalk and you see
me speeding toward you, don’t just walk but run,
or I will knock you off the walk for fun.

This is a modern town. The walks are not
for stupid walkers, as a parking lot
is not for bikes. You fools! Don’t walk but ride—
not on the sidewalk, though. You’d better hide
when I roll down the walk. You all can go
jump in the lake. You walkers are so slow!

Martin, how about italics in L2 on not and I'd, just to make sure we get the meter full-strength?

Excellent idea, Maryann. I did it. Thanks!

Bastard! You drive so close, you force
me off the road into the grass.
You wouldn’t do that to a horse,
you’d be respectful when you pass.
I bet you’re short and fat outside
your flashy car. You look so tall,
but I can see a cushion tied
onto your seat. You’re rather small,
and far too old for red sports cars.
I hope your tyres blow on a bend.
You nearly knocked my handlebars.
I bet you bought that blonde, my friend.
I heard her high-pitched laughter squawk
as I was driven off the road.
May she discover you’re all torque
and may you suffer, Mr Toad.

I really like this, Janet. Excellent. The only problem is that according to the 'rules' you can only do "a rhymed curse penned by a motorist on a cyclist" ... not vice versa. (Is that right, John?)

It is a cyclist Martin.
You nearly knocked my handlebars.
That's how N could see the cushion.

Thanks ;-)

Oh--I thought it said "or" not "on". OH I see. I screwed up. Chain of man kicks dog. I sent it too under a pseudonym.

You're welcome, Janet. I wish the rule did say "or"! That would open up so many more possibilities. When I used to ride my bike a lot, I had close encounters with cars, and I would love to curse them in verse, which you have done so well.

Speccie Road Rage
 

Ghosts of my pedestrian forebears,
flattened by your heedless wheels,
beg me now to write and tell you
how the roadkill hedgehog feels ---

"May ABS completely fail you,
punctures punctuate each trip,
Road Tax treble, Wardens plague you.
pistons seize and clutches slip.

And may your steering wheel lock solid
as a lorry and its load
comes towards you doing ninety
on the wrong side of the road.

But may you live just long enough
to realise its screaming wheels
have done to you what you have done
to us --- before your blood congeals."

Ghosts of my pedestrian forebears ...

That's excellent.

Martin,
You spoke for all of us hedgehogs. Imaginative and excellent. They don't have hedgehogs in Australia but they litter the roads of New Zealand. I used to feed one that lived behind a mulberry tree belonging to the Queen, (as all large mulberry trees do) in Putney. Charming little Tiggywinkles they are..
Janet

Hedgehogs make an extraordinarily loud noise when they are doing... well, what Mr and Mrs Tiggiwinkle do. I suppose it's the prickles.

speccie road rage
 

Martin, That's kind. I also think you have picked on the best bit!

Janet, I'm amazed that hedgehogs have not made the trip from NZ.

John, If we ever meet remind me to tell you the story about the novice Zoo Keeper who was told to take a party of nuns on a guided tour. And, before anyone asks, I should explain that it has a visual element which will not reproduce in print.

Welcome, Martin P., and I see the competition on this thread is getting tougher as we go! I too wish it were legit to write from the cyclist's perspective--I'd get some very heartfelt help from my better half.

Road Rage
 

You cut me off at crosswalks, nearly
hit my dog, run red lights, blare
your horn at me, pollute the air,
and drive too fast so cavalierly

that, even when you smash a cat,
you race away as if you own
the earth. While yacking on the phone,
it’s plain you’re blinder than a bat.

May you get fined for rattling on,
may flats plague every inner tube,
your engine lose all of its lube.
This tool you so depend upon

to get you from point A to B,
when used by you, is quite a hazard.
I hope it plows into a mazzard,
oak or elm — but pray, not me!

Great entries, people!
I adapted this one from a longer poem (ballade) that I wrote some time ago:

I’m hiking through New Mexico, let’s say,
facing the glories of the setting sun.
But just before I get to Santa Fe,
there you are, stranger, with your ganglion
sized brain and SUV that weighs a ton
paying no mind to sunset’s golden crown,
but nitter-nattering ninety-nine to one…
so would you kindly put your cell phone down?

Haven’t you noticed it’s a lovely day?
The kind that makes you want to jump and run?
But even driving, you can’t throw away
that cell phone. Look, you're running down a nun!
So I’m no longer saying this for fun.
My curse can blow a Humvee out of town.
I’m out of Prozac, and I have a gun.
So would you kindly put your cell phone down?