I pick her up through liberation
from the merchant crook
and we are married
on the journey home.
And, thus it follows that
no other mortal gets to,
(and this includes all kings)
put hands upon her steering,
’cause she is mine, alone.
Though on that day it happened
that I typed a poem on P/H,
the Gallic Gremlin came and,
like a flash, blink of ‘des yeux’
it ate each word, yes, a cochon.
And on the way, armed with a pen
and writing paper, she was asked
to drive as words came tumbling,
and needed to be written, once again.