T’was the hour before traffic and folks in their homes,
With all still asleep, gathered there the town’s gnomes.
Took with them they did, shovels, picks, axes
To undo the hard work for which we pay taxes.
Picks were driven deep into the main roads,
Down once again till they hit the good lode:
Raw dirt did they find and beer cans not a few,
Sometimes a water main, to make quite a stew.
With luck and soft backfill would they tear a large hole,
The work of each gnome like a village of moles.
Hurry they must, to be finished by dawn
Lest, caught by two headlights, most certainly gone.
So, hard at the labor to contract with the elves
The Council did strike in closed doors by themselves.
How might they “calm” traffic and cut evil oxides,
But for car drivers to take it in the hide?
So Go buses, Go bikers, Go walkers as well,
But for you car drivers, it’s pothole hell.