Spares Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

The sexes - always one is in the saddle-
do live together, but occasionally battle,
we humans are no different than cattle,
so let me tell you now the story of the rattle,

The wheel that hums is thought of with respect,
the wheel that rumbles loudly must have a defect.
The one that's silent, its alignment is correct,
the wheel that squeaks, however, is highly suspect.

You keep your eye on all four wheels to ascertain
that nothing untoward comes up to entertain
the thought that this great journey may yet be in vain.
All wheels do rotate for a living, that is plain.

You hear a squeak, it triggers frantic ministrations
with grease of liberal proportions, once or twice.
The one that squeaks the loudest gets consideration,
it's similar to children's plaintiff cries.

And when one fails to heal through simple loving care
and needs a rest in hospital for ailing, squeaky wheels,
attention turns at once to old and trusted spare,
it's in there somewhere, did you know it feels
so bloody useless, always on stand-by,
but quite neglected, never listened to.
The reason must be that it doesn't ever cry
or squeak, or scream or bother you.

But then it does something that's labelled as a rattle,
though not its fault, the tie-down was too loose.
It is the spare that always figures in recurring battle
of male and female, as they sometimes use
absurd distractions to re-mount the saddle.

The moral of this short exotic story
must be whatever from within you may extract.
A spare, by nature may consider to feel sorry
because of 'presence' when it counted that he lacked.