The fast safe expert driver
As happy as a clam
That self-styled expert driver
He doesn't give a damn.
With a really mighty motor
And a really tiny cock
And dreaming wanking daydreams
Of being Peter Brock.
He thinks he's far too clever
To need to follow rules
As he overtakes the mothers
Driving their kids to schools.
He guns his motor at the lights
And takes off with a sneer
You'll pass him at the next ones
While he shifts it into gear.
Now this guy may be stupid
His habits twisted, mean
But he's not the really nasty one
Who clutters up the scene.
The one who really takes the cake
The king of all the scrotes
Is Robert Doyle the maniac
Who trades off lives for votes.
At least that's his ambition
When he's in his seventh heaven
Bleating of revenue-raising
With the help of Channel Seven.
He may pick up a little lift
From all the loony tunes
He may collect some small applause
From bird-brained bloody hoons.
But any man with half a brain
Will recognise his plan
The desperate gamble of a sick
And truly desperate man.
Who in his right mind advocates
For slender political gain
The curbing of a plan which works
To limit death and pain?
He should visit a casualty ward
Go to the places where
The folk who used to drive their cars
Now tremble, sit and stare.
Go out with the crew of an ambulance
Check on how you feel
When they cut the broken bodies
From the cruel twisted steel.
Revenue raising is your cry
But only fools will heed.
The thick, the sick, the immature
The weak who need their speed. Top |
