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
