Sloppy Jalopy

I was bored at work one day (and every other day). This is what happened. I don't usually write poetry. Mainly because I have no sense of rhythm, so it always goes a bit wrong after a verse or so. And this is no exception. Well, actually... I don't know. If you fiddle with the pacing a bit towards the end, it kind of scans.

Sloppy Jalopy

There’s something sloppy about a jalopy,
the way that it clunks and it creaks.
It’s most anti-social, the way so much smoke’ll
blow from its pipe and it reeks.
It will choke all the folk who’ll
breathe in the air as they stand there and stare open mouthed.
They become most vocal, steam up their bi-focals
and curse and declaim ‘It’s not fair!’

Well, the jalopy’s not stroppy, and it never would copy
their swearing and flagrant abuse.
It harbours no hate in its big tailgate,
au contraire, it craves just a pal, just a mate.

For our jalopy’s not sloppy, it’s misunderstood
it’s sad at people’s alarm and disgust,
for in its perceived lack of charm it means no-one harm
and there’s no misanthropy ’neath its battered old hood.

The noise and smoke that assault?
They’re not its own fault,
its been subject to misuse and neglect,
but it holds not a grudge
and you never ever will budge
the proud smile
that plays
‘cross its wide radiator grate.

Or perhaps not. Whatever.