They weave and they wobble,
they teeter, they doddle,
they are cyclists out on parade.
In their bright shiny costumes,
inhaling exhaust fumes,
an uneasy truce, a charade.
I am not covered in scars,
safely ensconced in my car,
how they love being seen as contrarian.
You're not saving the planet,
stay out of traffic gawdammit,
you're lucky I'm not octogenarian.
Like a bipedal sponge,
that absorbs vapor grunge,
must we share roads with these treehuggers?
Scrubbing more C O 2,
than the space shuttles do,
watch out for those goofy buggers.
Though the air they may filter,
they keep traffic off kilter,
and ignore basic self preservation.
They are so frickin slow,
fueling road rage, they blow,
where in hell is that natural selection?
no I'm madder than heck,
as you finally fade from my view.
Get your ass into gear,
OH CRAP there goes my mirror,
I'd stop but I'm late 'cause of you!