November 14, 2008

• My Old Ford

  I wanted to share this poem with you. It is from around 1930.

  My Old Ford

  Oh, my old Ford,
  They all make fun,
  They say she was born
  In 1901.
  Maybe she was,
  But I’ll bet,
  She’s good for many
  A long mile yet.

  The windshield’s gone,
  And the radiator leaks,
  The fan belt slips,
  And the horsepower squeaks.
  She’s a rattle in the front,
  And a grind in the rear,
  And a Chinese puzzle
  For a steering gear.

  The coils are dead,
  And the plugs won’t fore,
  The piston rings
  Are baling wire.
  She makes the screws
  And the nuts all loose,
  But I get 40 miles
  On a gallon of juice.

  When I can’t get gas,
  I burn kerosene,
  And I’ve driven home
  On Paris green.
  In spite of this,
  She pulls me through,
  And that’s about all
  Any car can do.

  With high-priced cars,
  They give you tools,
  Some extra parts,
  And a book of rules.
  A good wire stretcher,
  And a pair of shears
  Are all I’ve carried
  For 15 years.

  And if I live
  To see the day
  When she busts up
  Like a one-horse sleigh,
  And Henry Ford’s
  Still in the game,
  I’ll buy me another
  By the same darn name.

  • 11:18 am
  • 1 Comment