2005
Mercedes Benz from Stuttgart, with polished leather upholstery
cruising down the Autobahn to Frankfurt and to Bonn,
with four strong doors, a steering wheel, and a battery in the engine,
you fly along at speed asking ‘Where’s the other traffic gone?’
A Peugeot painted by Pastis-loving robot,
watching the girls sunbathing by the Loire,
with an onion-breathing chauffeur with rain-soaked ancient beret,
puffing on a Gauloise. ‘Ah, onze heures. On trouve un bar.’
Two four four tough Volvo with doors of magma steel
ploughing through the freezing air and three metre winter snow.
If you crash into a reindeer and roll into the pine trees, or
fly off a cliff into the Norwegian sea, switch on, and the car will go.
Proton Saga biscuit tin from some unknown Malaysian factory
with a suspension less effective than a Somme or Ypres tank,
with an air-con that loses coolant, and door handles that come of with ease,
repair bills after two bouncing years mean a new loan from the bank.
