The taxis go up and down Los Avenida,
Each one controlled by an arrogant bleeder.
They don’t stop at junctions unless they do have to
And cut you stone dead with a loud peal of laughter.
They’ll block the whole road at the drop of a hat,
To pick up a fare or to just have a chat.
But if you slow down for a second, you’ll find you
Will soon have a very big taxi behind you,
Who makes no wild gestures, just drives up your ass,
As though you should stop and allow him to pass.
None of them know how to use indicators,
No wonder they’re likened to tinpot dictators.