I wondered why so many cars pass me on the motorways of Britain.
My speedo’s in need of attention.
It seems to be reading too fast:
When it indicates I’m doing 70,
There are dozens of cars hurtling past . . .
So the question is: how can the speedos
On the other cars all be so wrong?
Well, maybe they’re unmarked police cars
Each chasing the other along . . .
The first one is on an emergency,
But the others can’t tell – they’re all thinking:
“He’s over the limit! I’ll nick him,
And check him for drugs and for drinking!”
Or perhaps my speedometer’s right
And all of the others read slow?
Well, I thought of a way I could test it,
To make very sure that I’d know.
So I drove very smoothly at thirty
Towards one of those signs that display
The speed that you’re actually doing;
And it proved that my speedo’s okay.
(Well, it’s 10% fast; but it’s wrong
In the right way – the way that I need,
For it means I’ve a margin of error
As I whizz up the M1 at speed.)
Which means – well, no, surely it can’t be –
That most other speedos read slow,
And everyone sticks to the limit?
Of course they do. Maybe. Dunno . . .