Celia Merrill: Pot Holes

To drivers on our British roads
(To Cockneys known as frog and toads)
Those readers of the Highway Code,
Frustrated would-be Stigs:
They’re segregating driving zones
With umpteen miles of traffic cones
Reflective stripey megaphones
We find in student digs.
And digging up arterial roads
Delaying truckers hauling loads,
Their cabs as overnight abodes
All mod-cons in their rigs.

But cyclists in their lycra shorts
Who’ve taken up new outdoor sports
Don’t bother with the road reports
Then pedal past the queues.
They whizz past all the static cars,
The Four by Fours and Jaguars,
Ring bells fixed on their handle bars
Ignoring all the clues.

The pot holes now are gaping wide,
With little space for bikes to ride.
Unlucky riders fall inside
And make the local news!