You can drive an old hunk of scrap-iron and junk Which was once called a Regular Car, And you will not detect any rude disrespect From people you meet, near or far. Your brakes may be busted, your chassis all rusted, Your cylinders leaky and scored, But no one gets flip when you go on a trip —They save all that stuff for a Ford! Yes, every one shouts at a Ford! The high mucky-mucks and the horde; Your neat little flivver May not show a quiver And ride like a Rolls to the people on board, But every one thinks it's a part of the code To pull funny cracks at a fliv on the road, And rivers of humor on flivvers are poured, Every one yells at a Ford! Now I own a Lizzie efficient and busy Which chugs along merry and bright, I'm fond of it, too, for the things it will do; I drive it with joy and delight; And I'm a bit sick of the smart-aleck trick Which cannot be wholly ignored Of those who feel free to be ribald with me Because I am driving a Ford. For every one yells at a Ford! My feelings are mangled and gored; And I'm getting weary Of japes that are dreary, Exhumed from the boneyard where they have been stored. My wrath grows more hot as I chug-chug along, A joke or two more and I'll tear through the throng And slaughter with poison, gun, bombshell and sword The bozos who yell at my Ford! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REALITY REQUIRES by WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA TO AN AEOLIAN HARP by SARA TEASDALE THE CRYSTAL CABINET by WILLIAM BLAKE AT THE CLOSED GATE OF JUSTICE by JAMES DAVID CORROTHERS ASPECTS OF THE PINES by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 3 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI OF MAIDENS' PRAISE: AN INVOCATION by SAINT ALDHELM |