by Dan Keane
No more he’ll drive his motor car in country or in town,They dug a grave in Murhur Church and laid poor Willie down.
He trod the earth for eigthy years till called to Heaven’s bar
And no more we’ll hear the hooter of Willie’s motor car.
This car it was a model ingeniuosly designed,
Its mechanism perfect and controlled by Willie’s mind.
In every modern aspect it was car complete
And its travelling speed was governed by the power on Willie’s feet.
If perchance the gears would stick, then Willie’s sheer delight
Was a gentle push from rearward to get the gearstick right.
But when delivering telegrams he was not slow to state
That for motor car manoeuvering he’d need a wider gate.
The car was ever free from rust, the paint was always new
And the steering kept responding to Willie’s point of view.
Its parking rights were legalised immune to all offence
And its lamplight was a beacon from the soul of innocence.
A mechanical chameleon that changed to suit the scene,
It was a hearse, a hackney car or a private limosine;
Poor Willie he was likewise in professional regard –
An undertaker, parish clerk or at times a civic guard.
Still the zenith of his pleasure was before a crowd to stand
To perform his parish duties with bell rope in his hand.
His spirit stirred to beating bronze as solemn swells would rise
And his mirth was manifested in his wild expressive eyes.
He never new hire purchase, no tax was ever owed,
It was insured by statute of every traffic code;
It was a very special car that none could comprehend
For ’twas shaped in Willie’s garage in the land of let’s pretend.
So Willie drove for many a day on country road and street
With his own pecular friendship for all that he would meet;
His stainless soul and happy heart kept Heaven’s gates ajar –
I feel I hear from Paradise the sound of Willie’s car.
