He travels along at the top of his speed,
You might think that his life was at stake;
To beauties of nature he never pays heed,
For the record he's trying to break.
He stiffens his muscles and arches his back
As if he were still on the cinder-path track.
He races regardless of life and of limb,
Caring naught for the folk in his way;
For chickens and children are nothing to him,
And his mad career nothing can stay;
So wildly he wheels as if urged by a goad;
By coachmen he's christened "the curse of the road."
He'll pass on the left and he'll ride on the right,
For the rules of the road caring naught;
His lamp he will not take the trouble to light
Till a pretty smart lesson he's taught.
But lecture and fine him as much as you will,
The trail of the scorcher is over him still.
