The bane of Americans driving in Europe
are the devil’s devices they call roundabouts.
The too-narrow roads may occasion less flare-up
of tense apprehension, of screaming and shouts,
than will often accompany round navigation,
if even so much as one more car is there.
The increased blood pressure and heated complexion
are worse than the angst of a one-lane road dare.
The plethora of roundabouts dotting the way
are the devil’s devices they call roundabouts.
The too-narrow roads may occasion less flare-up
of tense apprehension, of screaming and shouts,
than will often accompany round navigation,
if even so much as one more car is there.
The increased blood pressure and heated complexion
are worse than the angst of a one-lane road dare.
The plethora of roundabouts dotting the way
adds much complication, detracts from the view.
Just when you’re thinking you’ve finished the fray,
A road sign pops up to announce one anew.
And in Ireland, Scotland, England, or Wales,
it’s doubly confusing: which way must you go?
“To the left! To the left!” come the angry, loud hails
from the passengers. Ah, be safe and drive slow;
and the trucker behind scrapes off some of your paint.
And in Ireland, Scotland, England, or Wales,
it’s doubly confusing: which way must you go?
“To the left! To the left!” come the angry, loud hails
from the passengers. Ah, be safe and drive slow;
and the trucker behind scrapes off some of your paint.
So you count off your exits: There’s one and that’s
two.
Was that one a third or a parking lot feint?
Now you’re back to the start and don’t know what to do!
Was that one a third or a parking lot feint?
Now you’re back to the start and don’t know what to do!
Copyright ©2018, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons
BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
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