The motorists go swishing past with air, of lordly pride, 

At every turn are signal posts and notices that guide, 

And special roads are made for them, with surfaces as smooth as glass,

Where R.A.C and A.A. men salute them as they pass.

The cycle and the horse and cart, the lorry and the dray,

All claim a right to well-made roads on which to take their way,

And even the pedestrian will raise voice in wrath

If paving stones are not laid down to make his feet a path.

But I must bump down every kerb and up the other side,

And I must jolt on cobble stones at every crossing wide.

For no one ever thinks of me, poor creature that I am,

I have not learnt to speak as yet - I’m  Baby in his pram.