Ross Murray's Border Report
Ross Murray
is a freelance writer living in Stanstead, Quebec. You can reach him at
Posted 10.01.14
Stanstead, Quebec


Why You Drive So Loud?

O, tender youth with ball cap perched And moustache like a wisp of dirt, Upon my street and through my town Why you drive so loud?

There's thrill in speed, I get that, fine, A race can spike adrenaline, Perhaps you're late and need to hurry, But souped-up engines: really?

To tune one's car, it's not my bag, To each his own, I always say. Spoilers, pipes and mags: all tolerable, I just don't get the decibels.

I wish you'd thrust your melon out Your window as you ride, and shout: "I'm loud and fast cuz I'm an idiot," At least that would explain it.

Instead, you prop your hand upon The steering wheel, so cool, just so, Ignoring glares from seniors, dogs As the engine goes "BHHRAU-BHHRAAAAAUUUGG!"

"The splendick's murphing in the gleeps," I tell my dear one as we stroll, Or that is all she hears at least Above the Sentra's caterwaul.

"Kids today --," we frown and squawk As soon as hearing's been restored. "Oh, great, he's turned, he's coming back. Oh, wait, he's forty-four."

And who is this with tricked out muffler? A youngish girl, a single mother. Is it equal rights when noise horrific Isn't gender-specific?

And yet, O drivers, fast and pestiferous With boorish cars mechano-vociferous, I'm still far off from comprehending The never-ending revving.

Were you neglected, you wee dear thing, The youngest whelp of ten, thirteen? You lacked attention, longed for fondness, Abandoned in a lot of Hondas?

You wish to stand out in the crowd Impress your friends, make Papa proud? Some strive through art, play sports, some sing But, you, you're just exhausting

I likewise strive to feel I'm different Yet I don't drive by your apartment with Tricked out book, bright chrome upon it, Shouting odes and sonnets.

Is this your social contribution: Burning rubber, noise pollution? Pushing neighbours to the brink? Dunno; can't hear myself think.

If you were on some circuit there, I'd Cheer, "Rev on!" I wouldn't care." But here along this peaceful bend You are a NASCAR without the "N."