The Brakes In The Back (For Backseat Drivers Everywhere...) Poem by Wild Bill Balding

Bloody French drivers never use their indicators.
Roundabouts go the wrong bloody way.
All the bloody placenames sound bloody foreign,
and the brakes in the back aren't working.

Oldest's got the volume too loud on his Gameboy,
Youngest's started whining 'cos she wants it too.
Bloke's trying to pick his nose without us seeing,
and the brakes in the back aren't working.

Stop at the services for drinks and chocolate.
Youngest has them both and she then feels sick;
throws up out the window as we overtake a cyclist,
and the brakes in the back aren't working.

Oldest keeps asking are we nearly there yet.
Youngest keeps on shouting that she wants a wee.
Bloke lost his credit card when he filled with petrol,
and the brakes in the back aren't working.

I'm sure we've done this straight bit of road before,
Bloke can't see the map so I'm keeping stum.
Pass a strange sight in a cycle helmet,
and the brakes in the back aren't working.

Big bloody lorry coming out of a side road,
Bloke must've forgotten that we must give way.
I'm stamping on the floor but it's no bloody use,
'cos THE BRAKES IN THE BACK AREN'T.....