Stopping traffic, nasty this sport, early morning.
Gals and guys halt racing cars, third fingers fly.
Seen just as pests by vexed drivers, or else deranged. . .
love to sock ’em in the nuts or poke an eye.

(Drop ’em to knees or to their sides)

Falcon slowing; it’s been for years on the asphalt;
it’s an antique and it’s damn chic, color’s dark.
It is just sitting there close to the square—
a door opens for some fresh air.
Gagging on the noxious smog, a hardened
look on his face as the mob forces him to park.

But he embellishes the smog with a big fart!

Gritty flash mob, perverse action, car-flow harmers.
Great time is not had by those who cannot start.
Serving time in vehicles for hours,
going nowhere, . . .beyond repair
f**cked up, but they care not, those who impair
the circulation; no one moves, none can depart.

Mob moves, inducing cars to slowly disembark.
This ain’t funny, but to these dummies, just a lark.