Date:         Fri, 8 Oct 1999 20:38:45 -0500
Reply-To:     Joel Walker <jwalker@URONRAMP.NET>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         Joel Walker <jwalker@URONRAMP.NET>
Subject:      FFrryyyday Follicles ... or how to put hair on your Westy ...
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<boredom is a cruel mistress ...>

Tales of the Workshop
   by Robert W. Service-Advisor

                 The Speedometer

      Oh, the stories we hear, like the stars in the sky,
         Have all been encountered before,
      But just when you think that you've heard of them all,
         A new one will drive through the door.

He brought in the car, said it didn't work right,
   And he wanted it fixed by tomorrow;
Said the speedo was bad, it was reading too low,
   And was causing him no end of sorrow.

So old Tom took it on, checking all of the faults,
   That might cause anyone such of a terror;
Even minor mistakes, lack of grease or a screw,
   No matter how small of an error.

Pull the dash, check the head for gears that were broke,
   Find anything there that ain't able;
And then follow the line as you move to the wheel,
   See if anything's wrong with the cable.

But the tests came up short, no fault found at all,
   So Tom drove it out on Route Nine,
And a stop-watch was used just to doubly make sure ...
   And it showed that the speedo was fine.

When he came for the car, and we asked him again,
   Just where was it bad, and how long?
He sighed, and complained, like you'd speak to a child,
   That the needle just had to be wrong.

Because, he explained, as I drive home from work,
   And I drive at the speed-limit posted,
All the cars on the road zoom by, faster than me,
   So the speedo just has to be toasted!

      Oh, the stories we hear, like the stars in the sky,
         Have all been encountered before,
      But just when you think that you've heard of them all,
         A new one will drive through the door.

------------------------------------------------

DMV

I hope that I shall never see
   Again those clods at DMV,
Those cretin-brained misfits of life
   Whose job it is to cause you strife,
Who stand behind that armored wall,
   Protected, as they spout their gall
To people, queued in long slow lines
   To register or pay their fines.

So many hours, stand, and wait,
   The irritation turns to hate;
But hate must hide behind a grin
   Or else you will not ride again.
Those words, I fear, will do no good,
   Will make no changes where they should,
For poems are writ by fools like me,
   But mutant genes made DMV.

-----------------------------------

Limmericks

There was a young man from Nantucket,
Who kept in his bus a big bucket
Which he used to dig clams
(Great big ones, like hams)
But they'd make him so sick, he'd upchuckit.

There was an old hermit named Dave,
Who kept an old bus in a cave.
When traffic went fast,
He was always the last,
But think of the money he saved!

There was a young fellow from Kent,
Whose bus in the middle was bent.
With the steering he fiddled,
So he drove from the middle,
And it caused quite a stir down in Ghent!