He was a Yorkshireman, the bloke
Who said “there’s nowt as queer as folk.”
And who’s to say he wasn’t right
As I look around the group tonight.
But seriously, the most absurd
Behaviour that I’ve seen or heard
Was once a runner going full pelt
And with a Walkman on his belt.
It’s not the verbal contradiction
That so upset me, my conviction
Was and is, it’s up to him
If on a treadmill in the gym
But in the traffic, where he hears
Just what his headphones feed his ears
He puts himself and us at risk
However good his music disc.
I meet such runners sometime still
At some tight curve or brow of hill
Their music source will likely be
A mobile phone or MP3.
No hoot or shout to warn of trouble
Can pierce the man’s acoustic bubble
Especially since, as you drive by,
You hear the volume’s turned so high
The underlying deep bass beat
Quite masks the sound of running feet.
“That’s his tough luck” the world might say
“If he should come to grief that way,
It’s no more than the fool deserves!”
But think on – if a driver swerves
To miss him, then he’s put a stranger
– It might be me or you – in danger.
