Mr. Ford, why did you make
The cars which cause such deep heartache?...
From MOTs to punctured tyre,
Was that a gun, or did I misfire?
Parking tickets, yellow lines;
Wheelclamps, countless crushing fines;
Insurance costs, CCTV
Congestion Charge for you and me;
Broken mirrors, cracks and scrapes-
Stolen cars, false number plates;
Big bills from men I cannot trust,
Who warn of camshaft cracks and rust;
Some love to drive with beer can filled;
‘Who cares if I, -or they-, are killed?’
Road-rage, shouting, broken glass:
Some cannot let an insult pass.
The traffic jams we see each day
Seem made to wear the clutch away.
‘Was that a space that just went by?
Or must I drive ‘till our tank’s dry?’
The eyesore of the breaker’s yard
With twisted metal, dull and marred.
There’s poisoning from lead-filled plumes;
Monoxide clouds, and choking fumes.
Excuse me for the way I talk:
But Mr. Ford… today I’ll walk!
Some are shiny
Fuel injected or carbureted
Hands washed after work or grimy
Green lights anticipated
Some are small block
Bored out pistons roar
Pride, nothing stock
New valves, what a chore
Overhead cams pushed to the limit
Rocker arms at full extension
Gears a ’grinding, spin it
Timing belt at full tension
Intake manifold a ’breathing
Camshaft spinning
Exhaust seething
Races, if lucky, winning
Linear forces generated
Altered chemical synergy
Fuel incinerated
Glorious mechanical energy
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