ANECDOTE OF THE CAR

I drove a car to Chambourcy

And left it there, without a thought.

It hurt the owner of that car

To think of it.

The kindly Camboriciens

Prayed for its soul at St Clothilde.

The car was bound to play them false

It was a wicked, wilful car.

Its classic parts, so very rare,

Were polished there with tender care.

Its engine all of burnished gold

It did not care for man or God.