Believe it if you will or not, it is true, what I say:
At the turning of the wheel of the twentieth century
(Nineteen hundred’s what I mean, a hundred years ago)
Trams and trains and automobiles, all were on the go.

Electric ones.

Mr Ford conspired with sleazy tyre and oil-rich barons
To pave the way to this land of grimy tarmac barrens;
Driving off with greed the healthy competition’s crown
He bought them up and then he brought them smashing down.

Thanks, Henry.

Judge Doom’s laughter echoes from the past, maniacally shrill:
As toons ourselves we live with his mad legacy, still.
Long inured to the folly of the diurnal commute,
Slow-burning dinosaurs along the painful, jam-packed route –

– and back, again?

I daydream of the time when this insanity will cease,
Relinquished to a simple, noisome conversation piece.
When we reside more close, nearby the place of work;
And are issued mountain bikes as a welcome company perk.

Home, working.

Henry’s spectre rides again: with public funds to thank
‘Public’ transport’s ownership sails gaily to the bank.
To the challenge we must rise, face our absurd rat race
It’s time to rip up roads, lay down fair lawns in place:

One long park.