The window's blurry,
The odometer's broke,
The tires are bare;
Who's driving this car?
The seats are saggy
From long time use,
The rear-view's broken;
Who's driving this car?
It knocks down the road
Toward the next bone yard,
And it can't get far;
Who's driving this car?
Once it was new,
Best thing on the road,
But now it's just old;
So who's driving this car?
I'M driving this thing,
And this car is ME,
And it's all worn out,
But I make it work.
If I didn't have it,
I'd be a-foot,
A fool on the pavement;
In fact, just stuck.
So I praise this car
And it's wobbly ride-
And I'm gosh darn grateful
That I'm still inside.
Gratitude is a wonderful thing. Breaks one out of the pitying cloud. I like your poem and the metaphor of the car to our aging bodies. The style of writing is simple, direct, and poetic. Well done. Thanks.
AMEN sister! ! ! We may be used, but: we're not used up! Great poem! Love it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Jk this is a nice poem