dafydd manton
08-23-2010, 11:15 AM
Maybe a change of pace..........
Ode to a Tour Coach
The Leyland Tiger was the archetypical tour coach of the 1970s.
By the time I drove this one, it was past its best.
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
Try to get me home tonight.
Thy ancient engine causeth fears,
It grindeth worse than all thy gears.
Thy worn-out springing bounceth much,
And squeaketh yea in time with clutch.
Thy engine-cover, thin as foil
Is porous and alloweth oil
To seep and bubble, squirt and ooze
Straight through thy skin and on my shoes.
Thy heater bloweth clouds of soot
In ice-cold air upon my foot,
And thus all night I gaily feel
The splattered oil that doth congeal.
And once, with hammer, aye, I bent
Away from me thy cursed vent,
To try and make thy chill less bitter
Although such things annoy thy fitter.
For miles around thy growl is heard
(But most when changing down to third).
The princely roar as fumes are forced
Through both the holes in thy exhaust,
And maketh things to glow bright red
Is loud enough to wake the dead.
As through the night we bravely tear,
Wond'ring yet, will we get there.
Thy worn out tyres do bump and jolt,
But hark! I hear a fractured bolt
Split asunder, fall away.
(That's the fourteenth one today.)
It makes me wonder how (or whether)
Thou wilt hold thyself together.
Thy pressure gauge is in the red,
(Ten more miles, then home to bed).
Thy temperature is off the clock,
And gloweth white thy engine block.
Five more miles by monlight's gleam,
And never mind that cloud of steam.
Now there's only three more miles -
I'm sure this jolting gives you piles.
Thou givest me three kinds of hell,
Thy power steering's gone as well,
Rain leaketh in through all thy pores
Then leaketh back out through the doors,
Except the bit that drips on me
And causeth water on the knee.
(I pray for semi-automatics,
No more clutch, no more rheumatics).
At last we're home, and so to rest.
Tiger, thou hast done Thy Best.
So many years of Private Hire
Verily shouldst thou retire.
Omnipresent, noble Beast.
I trust that thou wilt Rust in Peace.
Ode to a Tour Coach
The Leyland Tiger was the archetypical tour coach of the 1970s.
By the time I drove this one, it was past its best.
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
Try to get me home tonight.
Thy ancient engine causeth fears,
It grindeth worse than all thy gears.
Thy worn-out springing bounceth much,
And squeaketh yea in time with clutch.
Thy engine-cover, thin as foil
Is porous and alloweth oil
To seep and bubble, squirt and ooze
Straight through thy skin and on my shoes.
Thy heater bloweth clouds of soot
In ice-cold air upon my foot,
And thus all night I gaily feel
The splattered oil that doth congeal.
And once, with hammer, aye, I bent
Away from me thy cursed vent,
To try and make thy chill less bitter
Although such things annoy thy fitter.
For miles around thy growl is heard
(But most when changing down to third).
The princely roar as fumes are forced
Through both the holes in thy exhaust,
And maketh things to glow bright red
Is loud enough to wake the dead.
As through the night we bravely tear,
Wond'ring yet, will we get there.
Thy worn out tyres do bump and jolt,
But hark! I hear a fractured bolt
Split asunder, fall away.
(That's the fourteenth one today.)
It makes me wonder how (or whether)
Thou wilt hold thyself together.
Thy pressure gauge is in the red,
(Ten more miles, then home to bed).
Thy temperature is off the clock,
And gloweth white thy engine block.
Five more miles by monlight's gleam,
And never mind that cloud of steam.
Now there's only three more miles -
I'm sure this jolting gives you piles.
Thou givest me three kinds of hell,
Thy power steering's gone as well,
Rain leaketh in through all thy pores
Then leaketh back out through the doors,
Except the bit that drips on me
And causeth water on the knee.
(I pray for semi-automatics,
No more clutch, no more rheumatics).
At last we're home, and so to rest.
Tiger, thou hast done Thy Best.
So many years of Private Hire
Verily shouldst thou retire.
Omnipresent, noble Beast.
I trust that thou wilt Rust in Peace.