I have a friend
He’s English and precise
He’s likes to buy cars
But only at a good price

He’s rented garages
And borrowed undergrounds
To park them and keep them
In any space he’s found

There was a beautiful
1950 Studebaker sedan
With three eyes in front
And a two tone tan

There was a Messerschmitt
Once a fighter’s canopy
Repurposed into a car
The like of which you’ll never see

There was a Sunbeam
Not a car, but a bike
Big, well muscled
With an engine just like

The Tiger,
Which is what it was
On two wheels, not four
It could still outrun the fuzz

But the jewel in his crown
His one true love
Was a Lotus Super Seven
Just like Patrick McGoohan drove

Eventually my friend
Bought a place in the country
It had a barn and a house
It was nice and comfy

The cars were all started
One last time
They were all driven, hauled or towed north
And packed into the barn in lines

That was fifteen years ago
I visited him the other day
We went to the barn
It was filled with hay

“Where are the cars?” I asked
“Under there, under some rugs and shit”
“The Lotus”, I cried!
“You’re leaning on it”

The tires were flat
The axles growing into the ground
The shocks were shot
I gave up and looked around

It was the same with all of them
Rotting where they sat
I said “Sell one, save the rest!”
But he couldn’t think of that

Every one was precious
Every single one
Even if they all decayed
And left him with none

I found him a buyer for the Sunbeam
A fanatic who would pay a good price
My friend wouldn’t sell
Even though I asked twice

I have a friend
He’s English and precise
He likes to buy cars
But he can’t seem to keep them nice