I’d read a magazine or paperback.
The steering wheel became my reading rack.
I’d tear out pages from the front to back,
And thus where I left off I would keep track.
On mornings when against the clock I’d race,
I’d use a wind-up razor for my face.
My breakfast plate was perched on my briefcase,
I drank my coffee, ate, and left no trace.
I’d compose memos, collate reports,
Or change my socks, my shirt, my tie, my shorts!
Or contemplate and memorize retorts,
To hurl at bosses who were out of sorts.
Young ladies driving with me might distract,
Played slap and tickle, to be more exact.
At times I’d win a kiss or else a smack,
And through it all I never drove off track.
So texting while I drive seems a bit tame,
And writing verse while motoring, the same.
I hope my driving skills you’ll not defame.
If I press “Send” and crash, I’ll take the blame.