This is another poem about the flats where I lived.  (It had the underground car park where I found the flattened frog).  This is about the bollards which were on the forecourt.  There were a long line of them, but one in particular was always being knocked down.  This happened every couple of months at least and cost money each time.  Eventually, it was replaced by a large stone and that solved the problem!  CCTV had been installed, but appeared to have been a waste of money as it never caught anything worthwhile.

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I'm quite afraid to say it chaps, and this may make you frown,

But, it's never been a woman who's knocked the bollard down.

It's been delivery MEN and removal MEN and a guy who lives in Block one;

not one single man has cared a jot for the damage he has done.

So we ladies are sitting pretty, in a bed of soft, sweet clover;

until Lisa, Mary, Jane or Pat, knock the bollard over.

(But, of course, we won't).

And 'IF' we did it one day, Lisa could simply say,

'The image is blurred, the picture is dark, the car reg. I cannot see.

I'm so sorry Directors, but this time, it was not captured on CCTV.'

We know that women live longer than men; they are the longer survivors,

But now we know, which the bollard has proved, WOMEN ARE THE BEST DRIVERS!