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A poem for potholes

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By Fiona Reid
A poem for potholes

A POET has put down on paper the pothole frustrations of many Moffatonians.

POTHOLE SHOCK . . . Jonathan Cosens

The writer, who goes by the pseudonym Jimmy McClurg, has penned a seven verse poem detailing the town’s struggle with potholes – despite being the resting place of the inventor of Tarmac.

The poem has been adoped as part of Moffat Community Council’s offensive against potholes and has been praised by chairman Bob Opray.

He said: “I know for a fact if Tar McAdam was alive today he would be ashamed to see the state of Moffat’s roads. “I really think Jimmy has summed up the general feeling in Moffat and how sick everyone is of the ever increasing number of potholes we have to live with.”

Discussing the group’s plans to tackle potholes, he said: “It’s a major issue in Moffat, on par only with flooding, and something needs to be done drastically.

“We, as a community council, plan to keep reporting them and circulating photos of potholes to shame Dumfries and Galloway Council into action.”

                  If you ever come to Moffat be careful how you drive 
                 ‘Cos our roads keep breeding potholes, you see them grow and thrive
                  In fact they are so numerous, it’s now the town’s best joke,
                  Except it isn’t humorous, if your suspensions just been broke.  
                  Or you burst a couple of tyres and its cost you quite a packet
                 And your letter to the council just gets tossed into “the basket”
                 They say a wheelchair disappeared, ’twas never seen again
                 They told his wife they’d “dig him out”, but cannot promise when.
                 The sad thing is that in our town, a great man lies at rest
                  His name was ‘Tar’ McAdam, Scotlands engineering’s best. .
                  He gave the world a product to make all roadways smooth  
                  He put an end to lumps and bumps, even whiplash he did soothe.
                  They buried him in Moffat in eighteen thirty-six, 
                   He hadn’t said a word since then, no moans, no sighs no tricks. 
                   But yesterday I heard him as I walked around the town
                   First a rumble then a tremor it was coming from the ground 
                  Then over the old burial ground came a sudden blinding light 
                  And hovering o’er that cemetery there was ghastly sight.
                  Old Tar McAdam in a rage was tearing at his shroud 
                  And then he spoke these simple words to the assembled crowd 
                  “What have ye done tae this poor town ye cooncillors and baillies,
                   Ah gave ye tarmac fer yer roads… yet potholes crop up daily. 
                   It dis’nae need a lot o’ brains tae put ma product doon 
                   And flatten wi’ a roller till ther’s nae mer holes in toon.”
                   So come on D& G council, and get yer act together
                   It’s nae use pointin at the cash or moanin’ boot the weather. 
                   It’s action now were wantin’, ask any sir or madam
                   And if you wont believe em, well –  you can just ask Tar McAdam.
                                                                  Jimmy McClug 


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