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.