THOU still unravishd bride of great savings,
Thou foster-child of Dealerships and Junkyards,
Sylvan mechanics, who canst thus express
A greasy tale more slick than our rhyme:
What gasket-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Metairie or the dales of Jeff Parish?
What men or gods are these? What vehicles loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and exhaust? What wild combustion?
Heard engines are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeard,
Pipe to the cylinder ditties of no tone:
Fair Keiths Auto, beneath the Earhnhardt banners, thou canst not leave
Thy work, nor ever can those walls be bare;
Bold auto techs, never, never canst thou race,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy speed,
For ever wilt thou fix, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy wires! that cannot shed
Your sparks, nor ever bid the Engine adieu;
And, happy specialist, unwearied,
For ever 4-stroke songs for ever new;
More happy valves! more happy, happy plugs!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyd,
For ever combusting, and for ever clean;
All breathing carbon passion far above,
That leaves a 99 Saturn high-sorrowful and cloyd,
A burning head, and a parching radiator.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what rubber altar, O mysterious Keiths,
Leadst thou that engine block lowing at the skies,
And all her silken parts with belts, chains drest?
What little parish by river or sea-shore,
Or basin-built with peaceful Faubourg,
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little parish, thy streets for evermore
Will busy be; with lots more souls, to tell
How thou didnt rip them off.
O little shop! fair attitude! with brede
Of metal nuts and bolts overwrought,
With viscous fluids and myriad tools,
Thou, loud banging form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth taking the bus: Cold City Life!
When clean air shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst,
You are truth, truth you are, that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know!
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