Motorway sign, motorway sign

warns me about stuff when everything’s fine.

It says FOG or CONGESTION or SOME PRAT IN THE WAY

But I get there to find that was yester-bloody-day.

So my cynical mind now asks: Is that so?

and I picture a sedentary, coffee-breathed fatso

typing in messages to cover his back -

a substitute for the senses he thinks I must lack.

DON’T DRIVE TIRED he warned me today

Does he think I should pull for in for a nap on the way?

‘Sorry boss but the sign seems to think that it’s best

if I turn round and go back to bed for a rest.’

And to tell me that now is a little bit late

That sign needs positioning outside my gate.

No - forget that I said that – it’ll give them ideas

That suggestion might fall on government ears.

‘THINK’ – say the messages – they assume that I don’t.

DON’T DRINK, DON’T PHONE – I know that. I won’t.

And its alternative, even more meaningless function

is to tell me how many minutes ‘til I reach the next junction.

And off in his windowless office in Slough

the bored, sweaty fat bloke is mopping his brow.

Striving to justify the time and expense

but lacking in basic good judgement and sense.

And what of the future for these patronising signs

Will they spy on us? issuing on the spot fines?

OY YOU IN THE RENAULT – YOU’RE NOT DOING AS I SAY

THAT’S SIXTY QUID SUNSHINE YOU’LL NOW HAVE TO PAY

AND YOU IN THE ROVER - DID YOU JUST TOSS OUT A FAG?

And there goes another charge into the bag.

There ought to be some sort of right of reply

when the sign says DRIVE CAREFULLY OR YOU MAY DIE

You could text a response to it for public display

And have BOLLOCKS emblazoned over the motorway.