My grease monkey calls: ‘Pick up your vehicle.’
That car is my baby! I try not to panic.
With pliers and wrenches he gives her a tickle,
As if he’s a surgeon, not just my mechanic.
Slowly he emerges from the depths of the shop,
Dusty and hooded like some ancient druid;
A list of requirements now inflate the job:
New brakes, new lights, and new washer fluid!
Although he’s been thorough, and very efficient,
Labour and taxes push the bill higher;
A routine service is just not sufficient,
And by the way, she’ll need four new tires.
Can I do without her? No. That’s just it.
She’s my own dear Toyota, my sweet money pit.