My uncle has a country place
that no one knows about
He says it used to be a farm
before the Motor Law
On Sundays, I elude the Eyes
and hop the turbine freight
to far outside the Wire
Where my white-haired uncle waits
Down on his farm, my uncle preserved for me
an old machine. For fifty odd years
to keep it as new has been his
dearest dream
I strip away the old debris
that hides a shining car
A brilliant red Barchetta from a
better vanished time
I fire up the willing engine
responding with a roar
Tires spitting gravel I
commit my weekly crime...
Well, I'm off to register my car. I'll pick up a disposable camera later in the day and get some pictures for you kids.
