With private drivers as their guide
In luxury they smugly ride
While rest of us are left to gawk;
We drive ourselves (or, rather, walk).
How envious I sometimes burn
To see how nonchalant they turn!
Yes, chauffeured every way and all,
With servant class at beck and call!
And then I pause to note and see
The targets of my jealousy —
These ferried few, these grand controllers —
Are two or three years old, in strollers.