Parking tickets line my wall, A motorist’s trophy,
Fines turned into a showcase of art, a mosaic of yellow,
Only enough room for one or two more.
A badge of honour, A rebel’s mark,
That light up my room, no matter how dark.
Yep a motorist’s trophy, a Driver’s award,
Issued by nameless wardens, law on their side,
On a car you’ve got nowhere to park or hide.
They’re the Dick Turpins of this world, from London to York,
Dishing out those crafty citations in a yellow, colourful maze.
Not my friends. Not my heroes. Hmmm,
I wonder what Maximus Decimus Meridius,
Would have thought of my motorist’s trophy.
A gladiator of glory in battle, holding the eagle standard,
The symbol of the legion’s spirit and honour.
But he would have achieved nothing
With horse hooves clamped and a tax slapped onto its rear,
Oh dear.
Yellow lines, yellow box, yellow tickets,
Cameras taking selfies of my car.
The Silent witness in a nightmare game,
A cash cow is the perfect name.
Traffic jams everywhere but empty bus lanes, who’s to blame,
20 miles per hour in some places, hmmmmm,
Made by the looney tune brigade.
Would Maximus Decimus Meridius trade his horse,
Nah, it ain’t got a logbook to trace.
Like those who make the rules I suppose.
They’re the Dick Turpin’s of this world, from London to York
Dishing out those crafty citations in a yellow, colourful maze.
Not my friends. Not my heroes. Hmmm,
I wonder what Maximus Decimus Meridius,
Would have thought of my motorist’s trophy.
A gladiator of glory in battle, holding the eagle standard,
The symbol of the legion’s spirit and honour.
But he would have achieved nothing
With horse hooves clamped and a tax slapped onto its rear,
Oh dear.
The postman just delivered a wonderful surprise.
An addition, another badge of honour to hang on the wall.
The motorist’s trophy of the never-ending continuing story.
03:242026
