Motor Martyrdom

I never have clung to a motor car,

Or crouched on a motor bike.

Worry and scurry, clank and jar

I cordially dislike.

I do not care for grimy hair,

For engines that explode,

But of one and all I've the put and call,

For I live on the Ripley Road.

I drank the country breeze at first,

Unsoiled by fetid fumes,

But now I am cursed with a constant thirst

That parches and consumes.

I am choked and hit with smoke and grit

When I venture from my abode;

My pets are maimed and my eyes inflamed,

For I live on the Ripley Road.

I pass my days in a yellow fog,

My nights in a dreadful dream,

Haunted by handlebar, clutch and cog,

And eyes that goggle and gleam.

I am not robust, but I dine on dust

Gratuitously bestowed,

And for twopence I'll sell my house in the dell

By the side of the Ripley Road.