We changed the tyre, we changed the wheel,
approached the thing with vim and zeal,
we bathed the parts in motor oil,
we took the auto to the wash
and sprayed it with a pressure hose,
we tried denial, tried to josh,
oh shit, we said, but shit smelt better
than this excremental foetor.
We went berserk with lemon juice,
we tried to turn the demon loose
and exorcise its stinking ghost.
Grease monkeys underneath the chassis
from Frisco Bay to Tallahassee,
we tried the lot from fruit to louche,
from ketchup to vaginal douche,
in car parks right across the States,
detergents, sprays and sublimates,
deodorants, deodorisers,
atom bombs and atomisers,
but could we rid it of the rank
offending stench of reeking skunk?
We learnt to dread the vehicle
as if it owned the pungent smell,
as if the murder was our meal
and we were in a kind of hell.
The car keys and upholstery
began to stink of yesterday.
A creature walking in the road
had heard its skin and bone explode
and in its death throes it had squirted
skunk-spray at the thing which hurt it.
The car became a coffin where
we decomposed and breathed the air.
DUNCAN FORBES