Roadworks

The roads are never good enough,

They always find some other stuff

That must be placed beneath the ground

So streets are turned to useless mounds.

Just when it seems the work will end,

It's time to dig it up again.

They care not for road users moans,

They just deploy more plastic cones.

The road 'improvements' never end,

The chaos drives us round the bend.

We inch and creep and curse and swear,

So late it moves us to despair.

What 'vantage could we ever gain

To compensate for all this pain?

We chug for miles past closed-off lane,

Yet somehow see no working men.