by Sandra S Corona
Print Save Follow
Recent poems by Sandra S Corona
He, Then, Read Me
Farkle Was His Name ... Oh
>> View all 1,143
Took my wagon to Car Nation,
they loaded me upon the rack.
I was dry, the lubricated;
my streaming stream relocated
and I nearly blew my stack.
Another dude--at his station--
said my tires needed rotation.
My windshield wipers cracked, were fogged,
should my chassis be overhauled?
My wagon's an aggravation.
All that touching--oh, what friction--
but my headlights were re-aligned.
My joints were tightened till I bounced;
excess baggage melted, burnt, pounced--
the best make-over of its' kind.
Car Nation tuned up my wagon
and finally lowered the rack.
Quite fit, I whispered in a purr
"This treatments better than a fur."
Fit, svelte, my wagon is swaying.
My 'tire' nature is on rations
'cause I've tuned up all my assets.
My motor really roars like new.
Is there anything you should do
lest you burn out all your assets?
It's time to have your wagon tuned!
Want to review or comment on this
Click here to login!
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!
|Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
|This is absolutely HYSTERICAL!! LOL What a mess you are; you make me laugh with your writes! (((HUGS))) and much love, your Texas friend, Karen Lynn. :D :D :D :D|
|Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner
not having a car, they better NOT tune up my wagon!!!! :)
hee hee, this is a riot--you are a mess
love your writes and your wicked streak of humor!
(((HUGS))) and love,