Twice fortnightly we hearken thy Advice
Concerning Beasts we dryve with Fuzzy Dyce
We listen, weepe, and laughe untille it hurtss
Thou art wittier than Cokie Robertse!
Oh, woe! we cry and telephone Carr Talke.
I cannot ryde the Buss for 'tis too slowe,
So farr it iss to worke I cannot Walke.
I beseeche thee, "Make My Pontiaque Goe!"
Thou interrup'st with comments sarcastique
Spokenne in Harvarde axents not so chique
To anguished callers crying their appeals
'Bout Dhodges, Chaevies, other aut'mobiles
And yet we love thee and we cry at Ende
Of the Programme where answers you contrive.
Thou bid farewell with wishes good to Sende:
That like thy Brother never shall we drive.