Cash for clunkers poem: Oh clunker, my clunker!
Reader response to yesterday's report on just how much "cash for clunkers" cost the American taxpayer spanned the emotional spectrum 鈥� from anger to praise to a bit of nostalgia for the old heap readers turned in. But one response was unlike any other: a poem.
We offer below D.A.'s ode to the clunker, set to Walt Whitman's "" (D.A., if you're out there, and you'll have a couple books of poetry coming your way.)
Oh Clunker, My Clunker
Oh clunker, my clunker, our fearful trip is done.
you have weathered every wreck, the price we sought is won!
The dealers near the bells I hear, the horns are all a blazing,
while follow eyes your shaky wheels, the price tag grim and daring.
But oh hark hark hark!
oh the spattered drops of black
where in the block that once had oil,
salt takes the physics back.
Oh clunker, my clunker, rev up and sound your horn!
Rev up, for you the banners strung, for you we鈥檙e burning corn!
for you the interstates are clogged, for you the owls are dying,
for you they call, commercials, ads; their pocketbooks are boiling.
here clunker, Transportation
this fuel that鈥檚 in your tank,
it is a crime that in your block
salt takes the physics back.
My clunker does not answer, its horn is quiet still.
my clunker does not see the crime; it has no pulse nor will.
my new car, parked now safe and sound within my home garage;
a taxman鈥檚 quip, upon my 鈥檚hip鈥� provokes me to a rage.
exalt O鈥� more, and Ring O鈥� bells,
but I with mournful tread.
Remember still, my clunker will,
forever now be dead.
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鈥� David Grant is a Monitor contributor. Tweet us your business-themed Haiku for your shot at publishing fame.
