I was driving home from Uni,
In my mini clubman car,
When it started making noises,
And I hadn’t gone too far,
My car was full of luggage,
Because ’twas the end of term,
Plus a sleeping passenger,
My friend Ali, a bookworm.
I pulled into a garage,
To investigate the ‘clunk’,
And concluded very quickly,
That my journey was a flunk.
This car would go no further,
My trip home was not to be,
Unless it got some sorting out,
Some expert TLC.
I tinkered ‘neath the bonnet,
Tried the sockets and the plugs,
And used what expertise I had,
To sort out all the bugs.
My efforts were to no avail,
It really was a chore,
This car would go no further,
It would move no more.
I went into the garage,
To seek help but oh, alas,
The guy who sold the petrol,
Only knew about the ‘gas’.
He was only 17 years old,
And didn’t have the knack,
But suggested that I seek some help,
From the truckers out the back.
I approached with trepidation,
Their appearance filled me with some dread,
But they did their best to sort me out,
Then pronounced my engine dead.
They were very charming but,
Regretted that my car had got them stumped,
Some said it was my filter,
Some said it was my pump.
So very heavy-hearted,
I went to make a call,
To my mum to tell her,
I wouldn’t be home that day at all.
Just as I was ringing,
A guy walked in, and changed my luck,
He drove a car transporter,
He’d pop us on his truck!
Our saviour drove us home that day,
And wouldn’t take a cent,
I gave him whiskey I had with me,
Because he really was a gent.