The Death Of Sir Arthur Davidson Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

It was an absolutely dreadful day
when, at first light
Sir Arthur Davidson had passed away.

High as a kite
he'd still been tink'ring to the very end
with fuel injection,
it was a promise and a novel trend
yet God had said
that after His considerate reflection
Sir Art be dead.

St. Peter checked the papers at the Pearly Gate
and eyed the chrome machine of Yankee noble steel.
'Due to your prominence God giveth you a choice
in choosing your eternal partner, who shall be your mate
from all the living things, one surely will appeal.'

Sir Arthur killed the switch to drown the lusty noise:
'I reckon that it will be God I hereby choose
it's always been my way to only use the best,
I heard that God is kind and just but also likes to snooze
we'll get along so very splendidly and I'll be blessed, '

He met the Lord himself, perched on his throne
'what is so special, man, with your two-wheeled chrome toy?
Unstable as it is and noisy, cannot run without a road,
I understand that each of them is merely a true clone
that wakes inside a true believer the aggression of a boy.

Sir Arthur felt the heat from under his blue collar, and it showed,
'Is it not you who did invent the one they call
the spitting image of the girl from Paradise, named Eve? '

'Yes, that is true, the female was my own creation
I made her handsome, gave her curls and stretched her tall
and all my creatures in the universe believe
that I have formed with these two hands a true sensation! '

'But, SIRE, please, there is a fault in the front end,
they vary way too much from any decent specs
and in addition, though I dare not to offend
there is a chatter at high speed and a vibration
a rear-end wobble due to insufficient flex,
but worst of all, just look at the location
of intake ports which rightly point into the stream
of cooling air to make for excellent induction,
but the designer must have had a silly dream
to have exhausts placed so damn close in the construction.
And, no offence, it costs too much to just maintain
just one machine for one short lifetime down below.'

God, bristling now, he was a trifle vain,
typed a few letters on the keyboard of his Dell.
'It states it here that you may have a tiny point
(but you remind me of that scoundrel boy named Cain) ,
the creature I designed from scratch, and did it well
was always worthy in my eyes and I anoint
each perfect specimen before they go below
which is, of course right when they come out of the hatch
but I must say that your machine is not a match! '

Sir Arthur looked at God's computer, just to see
what had been posted by the universal brain,
it said that many more felt happy, proud and free
to ride God's Eve and all her clones to Kingdom come
than would consider to be dressed in all that vain
black Angus leather, plastic helmet and then some
spew blue exhaust into the nostrils of green grass
'Compared to mine, God said, 'your gadget has no class.'