Poem by Thomas Sweeney
My find old car, is going on eight,
And as when new, it still runs great.
Too bad my body, can't work that way,
But it doesn't happen, I'm said to say.
When brakes or tires, or a battery gives out,
We get replacements, which run as stout,
But there is not batters, small or large,
To give the old body, trickle charge.
After thousand of miles, as tires lose tread,
We buy new sets, so there's nothing to dread.
We can get transplants, even a plastic heart,
But it's not that way, with each body part.
With tune ups and changes, or oil and filter,
Our cars can avoid, being out of kilter.
But like Ponce de Leon, with his Fount of Youth,
We need an elixir, to make us long of tooth.
So it's left for me, to wonder an guess,
About the difference, in the aging process.
When an auto ages, it develops a shimmy,
But the older I get, there's less in me.
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