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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Over the top of Tammy hill came Tully’s motor car, Tully never drove it very fast nor ever very far. In his youth he’d taught us all How to pilot our ride, It was a job he did very well And in it found his pride. But now Tully was an older gent approaching eighty-three, And he was a pretty good driver still for a man who couldn’t see. So when it became known to all that Tully was on a drive, It was best for them to stay inside If they hoped to stay alive. Whenever he detected movement in his line of sight, He’d steer his car right for it and do so with delight. He’d assume that he’d happened upon some traffic on the lane, It didn’t really matter to him at all if it was an auto or a train. All that ever mattered to Tully was that he found his way to the pub, And he was about to spend an evening of Guinness and Irish grub. Then one night I’d had enough and was in fear of poor Tully’s life, The thought of the blind old man behind the wheel added to my strife. So I lifted the bonnet on his ride and removed the distributor cap, When I was done I was greeted by some locals as they began to clap. When Tully finally stumbled out he found that his ride was no longer game, He took out a pistol and shot it dead As if it a horse that had turned up lame. Now Tully has moved to town And can walk wherever he goes. Off in the direction of the wind And follows wherever it blows. And when a car comes down the lane, To the side he’ll frantically dive. He’ll shake his fist and yell at them, “Who was it that taught you to drive?”
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