Somehow I can imagine Milton in a sleek, shimmering
Mercedes attempting to pass some dinky, smoking heap:



Autobahn
by John Milton

Whence and what art thou, execrable shape,
That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance
Thy miscreated Front athwart my way.

The Autobahn is its own place, and in itself
Can be a Hell of a Highway, a Highway to Hell.

At last his souped-up Van
He revs for flight, and in the surging smoke
Uplifted spurns the ground, thence many a League
As in a cloudy Chair ascending rides
Audacious, but that seat soon failing,
He suddenly a back-seat driver becomes.



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