My Poetry. Dear old Bess.

My dear old Bess was simply made to rock,
She'd travelled at least three times around the mileage clock.
She drove with squeals and a constant grinding sound, bouncing high,
Breezing around sharp corners, always trying to fly.

Moving so slowly now, her body a total state,
Old and rusty, with holes worn right through the grate.
Wheels all buckled, the precious chrome trim covered in mud,
Riding the road with a familiar, comforting thud.

Her headlights are dim, the bumpers all broken,
Thick exhaust fumes are blowing, leaving pedestrians chokin'.
The radio is so ancient it gives you a vintage blast,
Playing programs in forgotten Latin and songs from the deep past.
The windows can't open, the tattered seats are a mess,
But I'll keep on rockin' in my old darling, Bess.

Eventually, she stops, with no more will left to live,
Chugging and choking, despite the last throttle I give.
Old and utterly tired, she simply cannot go on,
Her loyal engine finally going cold in the new light of dawn.
Taken at last to the scrap yard, a car's final resting place,
Left there to be peaceful, in quiet etiquette and grace.

The clear moral of this story, my friend, is obviously near:
Hold on to all those special memories, the ones you hold most dear.