Go slow, you raving ****, go slow,
And do not cut your corners so;
For there's a citizen ahead
Who will not help the nation, dead.
It is a nuisance, I allow,
That he should think of crossing now;
But he is late, as well as you,
And thinks he is important, too.
He is not, I would have you note,
An antelope or mountain goat;
He has not, as I think you may,
Some sixty horses tucked away;
He cannot spring into the sky
To let your motor-car go by.
And do not hastily complain
That he is silly or insane.
He may be old, or have the gout;
Perhaps his torch has given out;
He may have lost a limb or two
From fighting over there—for you;
He may be deaf; it may be he
Who brought your petrol oversea.
At all events, for all you know,
A man is there-and so, go slow.
It's not his fault that you are late;
And anyhow the girl can wait.
More citizens are killed at home
Than soldiers on the road to Rome.
January 9, 1944
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem