They don’t want to cook tonight

Which is how come I had a fright,

Diving aside for a curry astride a cycle,

delivering a range of overpriced Thai Cuisine,

Still piping hot, with coconut cream

Saying my prayers to St Michael

You know they get paid piss

Delivery cyclists please desist

On motor scooters, ten speed racers, it’s Helter Skelter

Flying right through traffic lights, no chance of shelter

Pedestrians within their sights

They work for peanuts, which they filch from

cling-wrapped plastic meal cartons

In the dead of night, ‘cos conditions are Spartan

And the bilge they deliver keeps you farting

Until light

Sanjeep from Calcutta, on your bike!

Thanks to a handy app, and loads and loads of foreign crap

Lazy punters, no will to sap

In an urban jungle where cheap labour’s on tap

Creates a highway within a highway

No rules to observe

Don’t look now, it’s two-way traffic on the pavement

Meals lukewarm Indian body heat

That’s the last time I order from Uber eats

Nearly killed by that nut on the cycle, who’s peddling for the price

of his overseas education

Hoping for a permanent relocation

Wants dual residency, one day Australian presidency

Two hundred babies and a white sugar baby

How do I know you don’t have rabies?

You’re ten minutes late, and you forgot the gravy

I’d like to box you with all my might

Uber rider, on your bike!

A 5% delivery fee, get it on time or they get it free

And you’ll be deported back to your tree

Or begging rupees on your knees

Sifting rubbish for student fees, you’re like a hive

Of worker bees, you bet

And by god you really sweat!

There are no opportunities left to seize, try two-for-one toppings

Extra cheese

Racing the next Asian rider, the next curry, the next outsider

Tricked and bashed by a Pacific Islander

You’ll learn to take it all in your diverse stride

You and Huang Ling, taken for a ride!

Do not keep the customer waiting, everything depends on the store’s rating

Five stars two stars three and one

Twelve hours outside in an open lung

Delivering your Kow Pung

Even though you should be hung, you’re the lowest step, the lowest rung

Your insulated food bag reeks of dung

Mahmoud, Praveen, your job is done

You can knock off now and head back to your furnished tool shed

On your bike now, and then drop dead!

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