The name for half my pain at last is gone--
It is not love, and it was never sweet!
I shall but briefly pause to think upon
The way you perished on that hilly street.
Cantankerous, unfaithful to the end,
My albatross, although you let me fly,
Such is your fate that time shall never mend
Your wings. So, heap of junk! Off then, to die!
Aye, when that Chevy beckoned with its gaze
For you to kiss, embrace its chrome behind,
What strange possession, what inspired daze
Prevailed on me to mate you to its shine?
It must have been some angel's prodding wise
That slowed my foot and hastened your demise.
George Chadderdon © 1996