What rushes through the crowded street
With whirring noise and throbbing beat,
Exhaling odours far from sweet?
The motor-car.
Whose wheels o'er greasy asphalte skim,
Exacting toll of life and limb,
(What is a corpse or so to _him_)?
The motorist's.
Who flies before the oily gust
Wafted his way through whirling dust,
And hopes the beastly thing will bust?
The pedestrian.
Who thinks that it is scarcely fair
To have to pay for road repair
While sudden death lies lurking there?
The ratepayer.
Who as the car goes whizzing past
At such law-breaking stands aghast,
(For forty miles an hour _is_ fast)?
The policeman.
Who hears the case with bland surprise,
And over human frailty sighs,
The while he reads between the lies?
The magistrate.
* * * * *