To The Motorist

My dear Sir, -         When men have nightmares, they dream about you.         I myself have been chased over the tops of pinnacles         By flaming-eyed Panhards and Durkopps         In my sleep.         Nor is this all,         For if one brings oneself         To read reports of the proceedings of police courts         One finds that the average citizen         Gets more or less chased by you sir,         In his waking moments.         The Police I know, sir, seldom speak the truth:         They remember so well the day         When a horseless carriage had to be taken through the street         At the speed of a funeral march,         And with a red flag in front of it,         That the spectacle of an affable motorist         Bowling through a Surrey village         To the tune of six miles an hour         Shocks ther imagination,         And they believe for the rest of their natural lives         That the affable motorist aforesaid         Must have been travelling         At the rate of anything from 60 to 600 miles per minute.         Hence, my dear motorist,         It comes to pass that you are afforded so many opportunities         For airing your eloquence and the fatness of your purse         Before the police magistrates.         In my opinion it seems just possible         That the real trouble lies in the fact         That you, my dear sir, do actually         Go through villages at a very low speed,         And that really the best thing you can do         Would be to make a point of going through them         At the highest speed consistent         With the safety of your own person.         For if you did this,         No policeman of my acquaintance would be able to catch you,         Hence you would never be fined.         I have been out of sympathy with motor cars         Right up to the other night.         The other night I had the felicity to take a small trip on one.         The motorist would fain have driven me to my house,         Which is half an hour's cab drive from Charing Cross.         He offered to do the distance in ten minutes         And started stirring up his petroleum,         But I said "No.    Let us go to the Marble Arch."         We went through the Mall, to Hyde Park Corner,         to South Kensington, to Paddington,         Into the Edgware Road, and so to the Marble Arch;         Time, at the outside, 15 min.         I am willing to admit         That we went down certain streets quite rapidly,         What time the policemen at odd corners stared stupidly,         And fumbled for their note-books.         But, as a result of that trip, my dear sir,         I have become an enthusiastic motorist.         I am convinced that speed and wind and the smell of petroleum mixed         Is the only thing which can be considered worth living for.         And if you happen to know anybody         Who would be willing to take         A typewriter and a pair of skates (not much worn)         In exchange for a Durkopp racer,         Kindly communicate with me.