(Inspired by having to lay-up the Clement Watney “Speed Six” Bentley.
Beneath a dustsheet, here I lie,
Listening to baby cars go by.
Small midget motors, which they tell
Will run on just an oily smell.
It’s possible I make more din
Than they do-tho’ they’re made of tin,
But then I was, I’d have you know,
Constructed sixteen years ago.
Oh! can this be the reason why,
Alas, I languish here and sigh?
Although no fault with me is found
And I’m mechanically sound.
No! There are two things I suspect
Have caused this horrible neglect.
I’m powerful and – yes, you’re right,
I’ve got a healthy appetite.
My M.P.G. is just eleven
(My H.P. rating’s thirty-seven)
And so, I rest alone on jacks,
Tank empty, and without a tax.
Just dreaming every now and then
On some Utopian future when
Of petrol coupons we are rid,
And all cars pay a flat ten quid.