From: Sue Combs
Tom Greene's Auto
I found this poem, written 50+ years ago by my Dad, and I thought you'd get a kick out of it!
The Ford is my auto, I shall not want another
It maketh me to lie down beneath it.
It soureth my soul, it leadeth me
into the paths of ridicule for its name sake.
Yea tho I ride through the valley,
I am towed up the hills.
Thy rods and thy engine discomfort me.
I anoint my tires with patches,
my radiator runneth over.
I repair blowouts in the presence of my enemies.
Surely if this thing followeth me
all the days of my life,
I shall dwell in the bug house forever.
Thomas Anthony Greene of
Philadelphia and New Orleans