Oh, Crown Vic, Queen of Cars,
you are so ghetto-licious
with your big curvy rear
and no hub caps.
I'm sorry about the new car, really.
Driving you was fun, most of the time,
especially when other cars
thought I was a cop.
I remember bringing you home,
cleaning out the glove box and
finding the first of your surprises:
gooey melted candy, gross.
But not like when we discovered
the dead mice in the intake,
or the dead snake in the transmission;
that was worse.
You drive like a big comfy couch
barrelling down the highway,
and you steer like a boat.
I will not miss your lumbering grace.
Don't feel bad.
This isn't because of your fit last weekend
hissing and steaming;
or your very high mileage;
but because it's always an adventure
getting behind your wheel,
and my new job told me that
I can't drive an adventure to work.
Don't go doing anything hot-headed.
Even though your trunk can fit many dead bodies
it is not big enough
to fit even the smallest SUV