It makes no difference in which lane I drive.
The one I’m in will be the one that’s slow.
It feels just like I never will arrive.
If I’m too late, I shouldn’t even go.
The cars whoosh by in the left passing lane.
So I move over when I get the chance.
The right lane speeds past, and I go insane.
The lane I’m in just never will advance.
I know that I should find a different route,
a better way to get from here to there.
For now, instead, I come this way and pout.
It feels so good to get worked up and swear.
The strangers who can’t hear me get my wrath
’cause they, caught up in traffic, blocked my path.
rhymaphilia 
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