I Am A Road-Rage Backseat Driver

I am a road-rage backseat driver,
my husband's co-pilot by default,
whenever anyone cuts us off
I proudly show my Italian salute,
where I raise my arm and shake,
the culprit knows the anger isn't fake.

I am a road-rage backseat driver,
if someone is following too close,
I turn around and make a mean face,
enough to scare the tailgater in his tracks,
my scary looks are enough to shock,
the bully who believes he is a jock.

I am a road-rage backseat driver,
wondering why the cops aren't around
when drivers act real stupid on the road,
making illegal u-turns in front of moving cars,
one minute I say a prayer and next yell real loud,
hey person you are a clod who is plowed.

I am a road-rage backseat driver,
who helps my pilot parallel park,
along with our backup camera,
he does a flawless job even though I pat
myself for being his right arm when in need,
I believe in living by my backseat creed.

I am a road-rage backseat driver,
looking out for flying objects on the road,
blaming the driver in front of us for littering,
everything from flicking cigarette butts to
dirty diapers and garbage bags of chicken bones,
wishing they would be hit by several drones.