What a fume
down the road
left in its wake
a cloud of smoke
makes people choke

Going places
up and downhill
at your will
not to kill
over bumps
round bends
give them thrills and chills

The engine roars
doing its chores
coughing and spluttering
as winter came
isn’t it a shame
if that car had a brain
it would go insane
as if to complain

wipers don’t work
running out of luck
windows dirty
paintwork rusty
‘Couldn’t sell this car,’
Mr Claxton says in woe
‘The only thing that works
is the radio.’

The door creaks
The petrol tank leaks
The boot springs open
The car is hoping

The brake, accelerator and clutch
don’t work,
We’ll have to get a car towing truck.
The truck appears, off to the dump
clitter-clatter, sighs of woe
the dump is the place to go

At the dump the driver stops
he relaxes and sighs
‘That car has had its chances.’
Tyres worn
Mental torn
ages old, can’t be sold

The car lies there
like a lump
in all that pile
of forgotten junk.

By: John Bain

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