Some people of a mechanical bent,

Worship at the shrine of gears.

Baptized in sump oil, during Lent.

Multi-grade up to their ears.


Devotees of the great god, Car,

No hardship is too great.

Snow or rain, wherever they are,

For the breakdown they eagerly wait.


When it comes; like Heaven's reward,

They approach the shrine, be it Renault or Ford.

Reverently before it, they kneel or stand.

Their workshop Bibles kept near to hand.


Then clutching symbols of their ‘belief'.

They fall to the ground and crawl beneath,

The Idol that demands both, sweat and blood,

From knuckles upon nuts hid in oil and mud.


When this strange ritual is over and done,

The blackened Acolyte re-appears in the Sun.

Spiritually uplifted, and smiling with glee,

There must be some difference between Him and me.


For I am an Agnostic; a disbeliever,

Who cannot or won't recognize, a Holy Oil Breather,

And who pays the price of Auto-motion,

With Migraine, Moping, and very little notion.


David Brittain


(Known as, "The touch of Death" to all things mechanical)


(Now I pay a mechanic, and stand back admiringly!!!)



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