Wheel me gently to the garage, since my car and I must part, No more for me the record and the run. That cursed left-hand cylinder the doctors call my heart Is pinking past redemption, I am done! They'll never strike a mixture that'll help me pull my load. My gears are stripped, I cannot set my brakes. I am entered for the finals down the timeless untimed Road To the Maker of the makers of all makes!
Rate this Poem:
Return to the Rudyard Kipling library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Dykes