There is a fellow dressed in yellow
Who creeps around all day
While others work, he’s the jerk
Who tows their cars away
From far and wide, the people hide
When e’er he comes around
For they all know, his wont’s to go
And ticket all he’s found
What makes this fellow dressed in yellow
Ply his nasty trade?
What makes this jerk make his life’s work
To make good folks afraid?
With my resolve, I tried to solve
The riddles posed above
So I asked the reader at my meter
Where ’twas that he got off
To my surprise, his yellow eyes
Were actually dead and grey
His ticket stack was damp and whack
His waistline curds and whey
Are you the jerk whose nasty work
Makes men cry in their beds?
Are you the ass whose smelly gas
Makes children shake with dread?
And then the fellow dressed in yellow
For a moment scratched his head
Looked to the sky tho’ wondering why
Then the bastard turned yellow and fled.