Classic Poem

Come, all you little Runabouts
And gather round my Knee;
I'll tell you of a Touring Car
As bad as bad could be:

It worked its Klaxon overtime
To make a Horrid Noise
And thought it Fun to muss up Hens
And little Girls and Boys.

It used to blow its Tires out
To hear its Owner swear,
And loved to balk on Trolley Tracks
To give his Friends a Scare.

At last this naughty Touring Car
Got drunk on Too Much Oil,
And went a-boiling up the Road
As hard as it could boil,

And went a-plunging, tumbling down
A dreadful, dark Ravine;
And there it burns and burns and burns
In smelly Gasoline!

Another little Touring Car
Was very, very good;
It always minded Brake and Wheel,
And never splashed its Hood.

It wouldn't skid, nor anger Folks
By giving them a Shove,
But cooed as gently through its Horn
As any Sucking Dove.

It never grew Unmannerly
To Market-Cart or Dray,
But whispered, " Please, " and, " Thank you, Sir! "
To those that blocked its Way.

It never scattered Bolts and Plugs
About the Countryside,
But did its Level Best to be
Its Owner's Joy and Pride.

So, when 'twas Time to yield its Place
To Models fresh and new,
This lovely little Touring Car
Developed Planes and flew!