A Sold Classic

See how the grass stands, grown, without a roof,
Four patches kept from sun to make them thrive,
Their tires gone, yet imprints left in life
Give ears to hear their presence clearly move.
‘Tis from a different time and now dull red,
Its former brilliance faded through long wear;
Though steering wheel and handles used till bare,
Tires run long miles to change have often led.
Not left to rot, a remnant of excess,
Not rightly called antique, as some would say,
But centered to the straight and narrow way.
Last of a cohort, made for nothing less
Than service true, for never did they stray
The type by which the future could be built.

Ignatius Strange Written by:

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