There’s a man down our street, I think he’s called Clive,

With a forty year old motor car;

He takes it each Sunday to go for a drive,

But he never risks going too far.

 

He sits up with pride in his cabriolet,

With the roof down to relish the breeze,

Till he reaches the park a mere half mile away,

Where he parks well away from the trees.

 

This trivial journey that he undertakes

Means there’s not many miles on the clock.

He works on it too, the points, plugs and brakes,

So the engine’s a smooth as a rock.

 

When he gets it back home, he will wash it so clean,

And dry it and wax till it gleams,

Then it goes in the garage where it’s always been,

Pristine, it’s the car of his dreams.