Exhaust fumes belching
Sputtering, muttering, creaking,
Stiff as chrome bumpers
Hammered down and moulded to fit
Shinning in the sun.
My carburettor valves are clogged
My capacity’s fed to the full
And my walnut finish, just needs repair
My upholstery is feeling the pull.
Synchromesh gearing lets me down
As tired and panting I trundle around
Or glide towards a steady speed
That shrouds my output in a mist
Obscuring the sun.
My body, my Wolseley Hornet,
My leather seat just cannot resist
And my engine is throbbing, chugging
My fuel is liquid fire.
Hmmm, I have never heard of a Wolseley Hornet. Nor have I seen one. (Smiles.) I find myself wondering if this is really your car?