Faking Rhymes

 

I set off with a cheerful grin,
My journey home was set to begin.
But lo! The skies began to grumble,
And English clouds began to mumble.

 

The motorway turned into a stream,
Wipers flapping like a dream.
Cars ahead with brake lights glowing,
In a queue that’s barely flowing.

 

“Just an hour,” I told my mate,
But the rain had other plans for fate.
Junction signs looked like a blur,
And puddles played a splashing spur.

 

Lorries lurking, spraying spray,
My hair now frizzled, gone astray.
Radio drowned by thunder’s roar,
My mind started to gently snore.

 

A squirrel dashed—it’s bold, it’s keen,
Across the lane, a tiny scene.
I swerved, I braked, with trembling hands,
While traffic churned in soggy lands.

 

“Oh motorway gods, please hear my plea,
Let me home safe, with a cuppa tea!”
The rain kept falling, relentless, true,
As miles stretched on in dreary hue.

 

At last, I reached my humble place,
Rain-soaked, wind-blown, bedraggled face.
But now, with towel and dry embrace,
I laugh at this wet motorway race.

All the poems on this blog are collaborations with CHAT GPT