Oh damsel fair, beware the car
Where sitting space is wider far
Than any man of reason needs
Except to further his misdeeds;
The steering column change eschew,
No good can come of it for you,
And likewise any motor shun
From which you can’t bale out and run.
Let maidenly modesty decide
To take a summer evening ride
In something of the vintage breed,
For virtue’s friend was ever speed.
No vulpine sibilance can come
From guileless lips of vintage chum,
With passion he is never dizzy
(His motor keeps him far too busy)
And vintage bucket seats preclude
The acrobatic interlude.
Nor can he sit you in the back,
For there a jerry can, a jack,
An inner tube, some oily rags,
A pair of mouldy flannel bags,
A grease gun, several tattered maps,
Dead bottles left by other chaps,
A tow rope and a grimy glove
Leave not a lot of room for love.
Don Juan hands it to his betters
To flirt with triple carburettors,
And modern Casanovas thrive
On ultrahydramatic drive,
But vintage bod of stark appearance
Gives his poppets ample clearance,
He keeps his honour engine bright,
It’s never loose and seldom tight.
And should the half – elliptic ride
Bring bruise to tender underside,
Those precious nylons go to hell
Among the spanners in the well,
And gearbox cast a blob or two
On tiny white and cherished shoe,
These are but little things to pay
For being out of danger’s way,
The while you blind to kingdom come
And back again, intact, to Mum.
The trouble is the vintage brew
At length may prove too strong for you,
And if with him you ride a lot,
You’ll end by marrying the clot.
So all in all it seems to us
You’re safer riding on a bus.
Many thanks to Carl for finding it and to Sally Attwood for typing it up from a picture on an iPhone.