‘Twas tee, enn, ten, vee, five, seven, six, two,
One torrential white car in driving rain.
It hit her, but it well could have been you.
A call-taxi halted to let her through.
Her umbrella flapped. And, bull-like insane,
Came Tee, enn, ten, vee, five, seven, six, two.
Muddy puddles trap one’s wet feet like glue.
The white car halted, as she tried in vain
To step past them. It well could have been you.
“Hm, why should pesky pedestrians do
Road-crossings in my car’s own service-lane?”
thought Tee, enn, ten, vee, five, seven, six, two.
He revved, and bumped her knee (he missed her shoe).
“Don’t cross so slow,” he said; sped off again.
It’s his road. Does your knee belong to you?
No injuries? Not even a bruise or two?
Not dead? Well then, stuff happens. Don’t complain.
And Tee, enn, ten, vee, five, seven, six, two
Stays on our roads till he kills me. Or you.
(Any resemblance to real-life incidents is not coincidental)