men don’t make cars (like they used to)

Another automotive geared poem.



Men don’t make cars like they used to do:

long sweeping lines, strong colours too:

such poetic palettes, rich array of hues.

Horns happily honked, grilles that grinned,

mudguard covered spoke wheels spinned,

engines growled – wondrous whirlwind!

Dial displays, walnut wood dashboards,

large leather seats with room to afford

– classic cars never leave you bored!

Our Sixties saloon six-cylinder growled,

brown Triumph 2000 like tiger prowled,

acceleration fast, Morris Minors scowled.

One day my dad bought an MG sports,

male madness, mid-life crisis of sorts;

famously, we five fitted in, of course!

My parents in hand stitched leather seats,

I bent in footwell, near mother’s feet,

boot and bench filled, family complete.

More modest cars purchased on divorce,

gone the grand engines, farewell torque

– replaced by brands of ill-report…

image: Alan Fearnley!biography/c10fk

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