My Car My Bucolic

The speed of my automobile exclusively
Depends on the wheelman which earth born
Crave where the passengers await it destination,
Seeing an endless road ahead.
Every four years is its renewal with the
Hope of getting to the promise terra-firma
Where the Israelites peregrinate to
With despondency from it adversaries.
Only the strong survive to drive the car twice.

Oh! My wrecked car needs help;
Oh! My foolhardy driver needs help
The despoiled car got it wound from exterior
Forces; where there is no necessity for protect,
Asthenic tyre dawdle the speed.
The engines that fabricate the car now hassle
Each other with hopeless range in anger.
In this car, life live by the way car live life.

My enfeebled heart deems of the
Mechanic who can revamp my sick car.
My position calls for change which we need;
Marooning us inside the darkest tunnel to fracas,
The predators which we see not.
Let’s have a heroic search,
Seeing not the vices of the past motorist.

Wheel the car oh driver!
Wheel the car to the right path
That the passenger serene
Wheel pass the motor park where other,
Cars swift with competition among them
My car my bucolic with countless myriad resources.

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