(rhyming couplets)

The hapless old "Q-tip" lady genteel
peeks over the dashboard through the steering wheel.
Both hands atop that maneuvering tool,
left blinker flashing, turns right to refuel.

Automobile drivers of all genders and age
have oft’ experienced the feeling of road rage
at they who tail-gate or flaunt cell phones,
and those who ignore active school zones.

If at at the posted limit you linger,
you’ll be greeted by the fiddle minger.
Such simpletons act as if they own the road,
and feel that you should stay in your own abode.

Due to government-sponsored class division,
for the moneyed caste one may feel derision.
With the prices of Mercedes and Jaguars,
you think they’d install turn signals in those cars.

On a given stretch of street, block after block,
the same speeders always seem to pass me a lot;
when I reach, however, the next red traffic light
they are stopped, waiting there - to my great delight.

Road rage extends to disabled parking space
where we see lazy dregs of the human race
who, though fit, pretend to be the disabled class
by displaying their $12.95 "temporary" handicap pass.

Fitful driving caused by texting babble
endangers others near these road rabble.
Insignificant people drive at lawless pace
to some irrelevant and unimportant place.