Crossing the road

There's nothing that conveys a sense of fear
as when you see a fast car bearing down
on you, and it becomes startlingly clear
the driver's not much better than a clown.
You may get angry, you might even frown,
but you know, with a growing sense of dread,
there's every chance that you will wind up dead.
But, as in every chance, what seems to count
is what you think, what's inside your small head;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

What you find at such times you cannot bear,
is thoughts about whether you hang or drown;
you're rooted to the spot, you cannot tear
yourself away; your trousers will turn brown
and you'll express yourself with vulgar noun,
and all of life will hang on by a thread.
You'd give up every particle of street cred
if you could somehow this terror surmount.
But nothing works, you're paralysed by dread;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

The vehicle, with luck, will halt in its career;
the driver might have learned his art in town.
Still, even as you express thanks you jeer
at someone who deserves a dunce's crown,
who lacks, indeed, any type of renown.
What you demand is that he pay you bread,
or you'll be calling the police instead.
And he'd better do this before you count
to ten, and call down anger on his head;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.

Austin Princess, you have gone on ahead
the news and information for to spread.
This fool of money's a veritable fount.
His mind is stone, his foot is made of lead;
and that is not the Sermon on the Mount.