The Car

It's getting older now, the handling's not so good,
forest petrified when we went thro' Norwegian Wood,
the lights are dimming, can't read all of the dials,
I remembered her old whims and lovely smiles.

I try the old brakes but she won't always stop,
have to explain when I'm pulled over by some cop;
the back seat could tell some interesting old tales,
always best to have protection when all else fails.

She had a habit of conveniently running out of fuel,
which meant searching for the appropriate tool,
we went to great lengths to make sure of reliability,
in hindsight, it would always happen it seemed to me. 

Even the wipers are wobbling along, to compete fears,
just not good enough now to take away all the tears.