I have a picture in my mind Of a sweet car I’d like to find. A car that speaks in V-8 roar. “They don’t build those things anymore.” A car that’s long and low and wide. A car that’s leather-lined inside, Or maybe “pillow style” instead: Velour seating—a trend long dead.
A car with whitewalls, chrome wheel disks, And stance that says with haughty hiss, “Back in the day, I ruled the road. Those things you drive today? They’re toads! They lost the will to build a beast Like me—but I survive, at least. I’ve many miles as yet un-roamed. Follow your heart and take me home.”
And I just might—snooty, aloof— If it’s a car with vinyl roof, Opera windows, two-tone paint (So gaudy that the tasteful faint), Cornering lights, gold-plated trim, And extra points if, on a whim, It has a Continental kit— As retro-cool as double knits.
It must be huge… but just two doors. That’s not your style? À tout à l'heure! I’ll admit whom I wish in back; The unimpressed will get the sack. My ride. You see? For spouse and me, And select others who agree That our vast car is crazy-cool… Yes, certainly, too cool for school.
Is this a pipe dream? Well… perhaps. But if I can avoid mishaps Of various and sundry kinds, The dream comes true. The beast is mine. The four wheels squeal when rounding curves. All smaller hoopties flee or swerve
I’ll rule the road like a wild hog… Leave Honda drivers stunned, agog.
Leave Chevy drivers shocked and weeping. Leave Mini Coopers wildly leaping Out of the way. Toyotas too. Ford Mustang? Dead horse, turned to glue. Mazda Miata? A mere sneaker. Hardly a roarer—more a squeaker. Some modern cars are cool, it’s true… But in this case, they’ll never do.
I want to ride for old times’ sake In wheels that keep the world awake… In style that’s gone but not forgotten… Ostentation that says “spoiled rotten.” Polish the chrome and fill the tank (To do so, gotta rob a bank). Then let me waft and weave along While cranking a great Beach Boys song.
You’re never too old to dream. At least I’m not. Welcome to one of mine. Will it come true? Perhaps. Depends on a lot of factors… including my ability to beat back the longstanding Lutheran guilt that still haunts me. (Lutheran guilt being equivalent to “Catholic guilt lite.”) The perennial question: to whom do I still owe what?
Am I wrong in thinking that the answer, at age 64 and counting, should be “Nobody except Jean?”