It is a noble act to labour and save
To thrash the motorways, to work hard.
Their charcoal grey suits and aftershave
Radiate a modest self-regard.
In a hierarchy of vertical esteem
They cluster in groups around the bar.
Travelling salesmen. Of what do they dream?
Of a quicker route, a superior car
A freshly-ironed shirt, a silk tie.
They are eternally driving, hopefully
It was the rim for them, not the bullseye
They work hard for the family
In the middle lane, neither peasant nor king
On the motorway, hopefully travelling.
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