My Wolseley Hornet


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.

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1 Response to My Wolseley Hornet

  1. Mary says:

    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?

Thank you for reading my poems. Please don't feel you have to comment. I enjoyed writing them, I hope you enjoyed reading them, Be blessed.

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