Number 27, The Pot Hole

Number 27.  With 328 to go.

The Pot Hole

There was a pot hole in our lane,
For many weeks, and driver’s blamed
The Council, whom they daily called,
After they had been appalled
To come across it by surprise,
Jolting tears into their eyes!
No warning signs; but if they knew,
Instead of wildly crashing through,
They would have slowed and gone around,
To save themselves from being drowned!
For on a day when it had rained,
The water in it hadn’t drained;
You couldn’t see that it was deep,
Till jarring through it made you weep,
By which time it was all too late.
A truck could just about escape,
But smaller cars just fell right in
The water to their drivers’ chin!
I do exaggerate a bit,
About its size, but that’s just it;
It was a pothole, nothing much
Needing a patch or something such!

Then yesterday all hell broke out;
Half of the council team turned out.
Ten brave men and several vans,
All arrived to lend their hands.
Looking busy, one and all;
But working hard’s not what you’d call,
What most of them were really at;
It seemed they did no more than chat!
One fellow did the Stop Go thing,
While yet another filled it in.
What did the other people do?
They stood and watched, then made a brew.
They came with hard hats one and all,
As if the sky above might fall,
And though the hole had been obscure,
Now they made a big detour,
Past many different signs and posts,
When one would do it at the most.
And heaven knows how much was spent,
To pay for this extreme event;
They've gone off now, more holes to fill...
No doubt with yet more overkill!

© Stephen Saunders

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