The Screech

by Alistair Hamilton

Ah pulled oot a side street tae a main thoroughfare,
We both hit the brakes, nivir kent ye were there,
By a busy wee bakers doin’ guid lunchtime trade,
Whaur a stupid big builder left his van in the way.

Ah’d hae stopped if ah seen you, but couldnae fur the van,
Ah’d hae gaun even slower cos ah dinnae want a prang,
But we both hit the brakes an’ a screech filled the air,
An we stopped really close, the proverbial ba’ hair.

People stopped walking tae see the melee,
The sicht o’ a cop car crashing intae me,
Then shrugged when the sound of bent metal nivir came,
It was only a close un, so they carried oan hame.

You eyeballed me, through your windscreen o’ glass,
Ah smiled and ah waved, hoping you wid pass,
But ye hit your flashers and stepped oot- six fit three,
Pulled oan yir cap, cam an’ towered ower me.

Ye leaned oan ma roof and ma window went bizzzz,
When ah saw aw them stripes ah went into a tizz,
“Are ye awright?” ye asked, “cos that wan was close”,
I wis just shook up and ah had banged ma nose.
 
Why dae we value cars like they’re gold?
A wee daft prang’s nae a lot, truth be told,
Is it pride that oor car is an unblemished temple?
Or that the cost of repairs is just sae bloody mental?

“Alastair!”, ye said, “fae the chippy doon the street?
Ah come tae buy twa suppers each Friday night?
Go oan yir way, ye seem like yir fine,
An’ ah’ve a builder tae ticket, cos that’s a yella line!”

So I went oan ma way- in only third gear,
Shakin’ an’ sweatin’ an’ driving wi’ fear,
Like another car would leap from any wee alley,
An maybe this time, they widnae be pally.

Cars dinnae matter if they are Merc, Jag or Bentley,
Its people that mak’ life rub along gently,
A copper who had me bang tae ma rights,
Let it pass sae he got his tea oan Friday nights.