I know, I can clearly foresee
that your car will be wrapped round a tree.
I don’t channel mystical forces -
it’s what happens to lowlife in Corsas
who endanger, disturb and annoy
in their polished and pimped pride and joy.
I don’t need to hear your deafening bass
or see the blank look on your weasely face,
sometimes your car
says what you are –
I’m a little bit fick
and I drive like a dick
but it may tell you more
like what fate has in store.
With you it’s a tree
(or a lamp post) I see.
A fairly innocuous bend
…probably racing a friend
…over the limit I guess
…and the world will have one moron less.
Bouquets will be laid there for you
and the girl you were driving with too.
Your mother will grieve for her son
whilst demanding that ‘something’ is done
and in spite of the ban that you had
she’ll insist you were such a nice lad.
And the poor girl’s parents will mourn
whilst cursing the day you were born.
Dead flowers tied to a tree -
that’s all that your future will be,
a sad little shrine by the road
where you fatefully reaped what you sowed.
