I never wanted to drive. But my job
Demanded a car. So – grinding the gears -
I quivered out on to roads full of killers,
And forty years’ driving confirms all my fears.

Cars cause pollution, they choke up the city,
For hours nothing moves, it’s all quite insane.
But if one can sit in a warm comfy car,
Who’s going to wait for a bus in the rain?

Everyone drives much faster than me.
As they pass me, the purple-faced lunatics hoot.
But I tootle on down remote leafy lanes
Umbrella and picnic safe in the boot.

At the end of the journey is somebody’s garden -
Heav’n-scented roses and whispering trees,
Herbaceous borders that glisten like jewels,
Greensward and lilies, old oaks and cream teas.