(By the Darn-Poor Rhymer. It’s to be sung to the Negro spiritual, “Swing low, sweet chariot.” To appreciate it fully, you really do need to sing it).
Last night, I’d been pub-walking.
Needing to get back home,
Weary and inebriated,
I took a taxi ride home.
I sat in a back seat of soft black leather;
This would be a comfy ride home.
I sat back and chatted with my Muslim driver,
As he took me for a taxi ride home.
My friend is an immigrant; why should I care?
He took me for a comfy ride home!
He did me a service, and treated me fair,
And that’s why I’ve written this pome.
We went up the hill, it’s one in seven;
A drumlin, some might say a dome.
I might well have suffered a heart attack,
If in that state I’d tried to walk home.
At the end of the ride, he stopped on the bend
That’s nearest to my home;
I paid him a few pounds; and that was the end
Of our contract. And I was home.
And yet, politicians are scheming to force us
To give up the easy way home;
And all of them want to steal our resources,
So we can’t afford to ride home.
Swing low, my taxi driver,
Coming for to carry me home!
I’ll relax in your back seat, and pay about a fiver
For you to take me home.