The Dreaming Tree

I'm no swanky motorist, no gutsy over-speeder,
I just stick to the pavement, I'm the bottom feeder,
But when my butt is off that saddle and safely on my bed,
I curse and scream and choke your memory till it is cold and dead.

You know who you are, on your zippy bike,
Of all the torture in my head, you know what I'd really like?
To take your scruffy, grinning face and feed it to a ravaging mutt,
Take your charred exhaust pipe and stick it up you butt.

And you know who you are, Mr. Classy IT guy in a sedan,
Oh how many poseurs I've seen from your mighty clan,
How I'd like to pick you apart in debugger mode,
Parse you through a paper shredder into a million bits of code.

And you know who you are, SUV metro boy with a chick,
(By the way, we know you bought that Pajero to make up for the tiny dick)
If only your driving was half as good as your dressing sense,
I'd spare your manhood of the excessive violence.

And as you ignore my obscene rebel yell,
I know for sure that, with me, you too will burn in hell,
Just that your oh-so-pretty broads and better halves,
Will be ogling at my bulging quads and feeling up my calves.