Girls in old Volvos drive me mad.
Their dogs in the backseat looking so sad.
They're early sixties stylized,
my true ambitions realized.
They're so disassociated and cool
and those dogs, how they drool
on the re-upholstered seats
of discounted, faux, bengal fur.
There are sunglasses hiding

vacant stares, despondent pouts

and looks like, "WHO CARES?"

Turning signals never work

and epoxied dash attachments

and little quirks make me want to scream,

"I LOVE YOU !" each time they drive past.
Four on the floor or three in the tree,

it really makes no difference to me.

Their exhaust is noxious, but then so am I.

Cross my heart and hope to die

stick a needle in my eye but...

Fifty five in the slow lane drives me wild.

They're going nowhere and not getting there fast.
You, Volvo Girl, are rebel. You are outcast.

And it is not your fault that people do not

understand your constant and undeviating

requirement for individuality and your disdain

for the human race. So don't let them stare you in the face .

Because you'll get nothing back but a look that says, "DROP DEAD, DUDE."
I dream to find one broken down one day.
An "eighteen hundred E," my dear
what would you say to your knight in shining armor
coming to your automotive rescue?
You, in your leather jacket and paint splattered jeans,
and that interesting hair cut, you know what it means
to embrace those old Swedish machines
and make them young again
like I know you would me.
And I'd be down on my knees
and you'd rattle your keys just out of my reach.
I want to be your hairless dog
and run on the beach and pick up your sticks
and ride in your car and drool on your seats.
I want to be your ornamental pooch.
To conquer the world back
to an airbagless age with lapbelts and leaded.
So lock me in your cage of dispassionate bemusement
and let's drive, honey.
Let's just drive.