To-speed, or not to speed—that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The bad law of outrageous government,
Or to take arms against damn-fool restriction.
And, by opposing, end it.
To cruise, to drive no more :
For by this rule enforced soon
Ere Christmas comes, our days of motoring are gone.
And desolation fills the soul :
And every sports-car worthy of the name
Doth seize its bearings, never use top cog,
Or even third—for seventy’s not fast—
To drive, as one should drive—aye there’s the rub;
For this crawl-speed, which Noddy-boys agree
Is all too fast, brings death to b.h.p., developed
By Aston, Lotus and GT Saloon.
Frustration, that foul killer, sallies forth
Near every corner, every brow of hill,
On every motorway, in every lane.
Frustration, cause of many accidents.
Will seep into the mind, will goad the foot,
And many the sane to lose his sanity.
Evil law! What then must the true Motorist do?
The chap who drives for driving’s sake, and not
To go in fastest time from A to B
In tin box with lamentable top speed
That’s no where near the reading on his dial.
Should we employ once more a man with flag
To warn of the maniacal approach
Of furious lethal motorist ? Seventy’s NOT FAST.
‘Tis barely cruising speed in proper cars,
We strive and love to drive as best we know.
Cry havoc! Show-disapproval and disgust
At foul legislation. Watch your mirror well.
And never get caught, or cautioned. And don’t brake:
And prove the scheme to be unworkable.
Dear motorists—there’s but one other way.
Await the next Emancipation Day.
(For best effect recite Olivier-fashion.)
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