And now, a poetic interlude. This bit o’ verse is entitled, ‘Grandma in a Shitbox Ford‘.
Don’t anyone say I never classed the place up with some culture and shit, yo.
Grandma in a Shitbox Ford
‘Twas a summer morning in my ‘hood,
When I set off for work, as well I should.
With no warning of what lay ahead,
I put pavement twixt my ass and bed.
“Two miles passed by without a hitch;
That’s when I first espied the bitch.”
I ventured forth in my trusty car;
Twelve miles to work — not so very far.
And no clues to what I’d’ve soon endured —
The grandma in the shitbox Ford.
I made my way from the garage,
Without vehicular entourage;
The streets, it seemed, were mine alone;
My deluxe private driving zone.
But soon I’d change my carefree tune,
When stuck behind a senile loon.
She’d sour my mood, rest assured —
That grandma in the shitbox Ford.
I zipped unscathed through traffic lights,
Toward the highway, and full speeding rights.
Past the onramp, and the toll booth tower,
Then through at ninety miles an hour.
Two miles passed by without a hitch;
That’s when I first espied the bitch.
Inching as though the car were moored —
That grandma and her shitbox Ford.
She occupied the far left lane,
Clogging traffic like a hairy drain.
From ninety, I slowed down to ten,
Checked my speed, and braked again.
My consternation wouldn’t soon abate;
She’d neither move her ass, nor accelerate;
She well earned my ‘Masshole’ award;
Wrinkly grandma, rusty Ford.
Eight miles in, my exit loomed.
In the ‘slow car’ lane, the traffic zoomed.
But as I saw the chance to make my swerve,
The old lady slowed for a gentle curve.
My blinker on, I eyed the ramp.
With back asweat, and forehead damp.
But my slot was filled by a rogue Accord,
Thanks to grandma and her shitbox Ford.
I righted my ship with a sudden twist,
Though now I found my exit missed;
And miles before a roundabout,
Where I might sort my destination out.
Still, our biddy blocked my path,
Pissing off and incurring wrath.
For fifteen painful minutes more
I followed grandma in her shitbox Ford.
Finally, I wriggled free,
Outracing a Beemer Series 3;
And made my way to work, irate —
Fuming, and an hour late.
I honked to show my great displeasure;
The crone’s response was a special treasure.
As I passed her by, I was gestured toward;
Flipped off by granny, from her shitbox Ford.
She crept away as I gaped, amazed,
With her dander up, and finger raised.
I don’t know where she found the verve,
But that old bitch sure had some nerve.
I smiled as I made my offramp ‘u-ie’;
Though I wished her car would go kabloo-ie.
I found a nemesis, out of her gourd,
That spritely old hag, and her shitbox Ford.
God bless ya, Granny! Now get off the goddamned road!!Permalink | 2 Comments