Andrew Barton Paterson

The Lay of the Motor-Car

We’re away! and the wind whistles shrewd 
In our whiskers and teeth; 
And the granite-like grey of the road 
Seems to slide underneath. 
As an eagle might sweep through the sky, 
So we sweep through the land; 
And the pallid pedestrians fly 
When they hear us at hand. 
We outpace, we outlast, we outstrip! 
Not the fast-fleeing hare, 
Nor the racehorses under the whip, 
Nor the birds of the air 
Can compete with our swiftness sublime, 
Our ease and our grace. 
We annihilate chickens and time 
And policemen and space. 

Do you mind that fat grocer who crossed? 
How he dropped down to pray 
In the road when he saw he was lost; 
How he melted away 
Underneath, and there rang through the fog 
His earsplitting squeal 
As he went -- Is that he or a dog, 
That stuff on the wheel?