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One evening at a stoplight I waited for the green He pulled up on his Triumph And idled his machine. We nodded toward each other, So friendly and polite; And eased out on the clutches When came the proper light. And, though we hadn’t planned it, We started to compete And tried to make our fenders lead The other down the street. The boulevard was busy, The cars and trucks were thick; We hunted for an open slot And tried to make a pick. We slithered through the traffic, 'Tween fenders, doors, and grills; We stayed, though, nearly even With our serpentining skills. When filled our rear-view mirrors With a headlight, coming fast; As mindless as a missile Barely missing all it passed. My British buddy gave a shrug, He knew I felt the same, It buzzed and beeped and blew on by To end our spoiled game And set our blood to boiling fast, We thought we ought to shoot her; That air-head girl from junior high Out-ran us on her scooter!
Wes Stephenson

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