That is no highway for old cars. The new,
In shiny chrome and leather, imports from the East
-- with glowing reputations - hit the road,
The entrance ramps, the motorcar covered streets
Coupe, cab or car, all struggle with the load
Whatever is welded, polished and sold,
Caught in that gridlocked scene the old expect
To break down from years of shameful neglect.
An ancient car is but a rusty heap,
A box of bolts upon the blocks, unless
Engine's renewed and dashboard's restored
To make a Classic Car from erstwhile mess
Nor are there modern model lines but aped
From motorcars of antique magnificence
And so I have driv'n the streets and come
To the Motor City of Byzantium.
Oh, starlets stroking that new four-ply tire
In glossy resplendence on page or wall
Sell me that tire, soothe my desire,
And make my old jalopy ready to roll.
Consume my cash away, stick with a buyer
And fix up my dying automobile --
I know not what it is -- and finally
Tow it to the junk heap of history.
Once melted to metal it never shall take
Its new-molded form from any former car
But such a shape as molten wax-blobs make
Like slick black drips of still-warm tar
To smartly go in gear and smoothly brake
Named for a distant and little known star
On roads and highways of Byzantium
Its fashion passing, passed before it is come.