The wicked road troll ruins our roads

    With his pick, shovel and axe.

Ah yes, he knows the holes he makes

    They’ll mend with people’s tax.

 

He does his deeds quite late at night,

    When you and I sleep tight

And when he thinks of what’s to come,

    He laughs at all his spite.

 

The morning’s traffic starts to flow -

    (Oh think of those poor souls) -

Down their wheels go bump bump bump

    In lots and lots of holes.

 

One driver’s hands wave in despair.

    He reaches for the phone

And asks someone to come and help

    And gives a fearsome groan.

 

There’s someone else, sat at the back,

    Who seems to be quite cool

For that someone, with joy in heart,

    Will miss a day at school!

 

 

Copyright on all my poems

 

 

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