In a desert place with dry flat sand,
Redundant aircraft in a line they stand,
Outdated, inefficient, too big, too small,
Superfluous to the industry’s current call.
I fear that there will be many, many, more
Surplus to airline fleets, left on the floor,
Whilst this virus occupies our air and more,
The world not vaccinated until 2024.
On a concrete runway of an old airfield,
Stands rows of new cars ever waiting a deal.
Your new car may not be as new as you think,
The motor industry must be on the brink.
What to do with your diesel car or van,
Very soon such vehicles will suffer a ban.
Petrol too is for the chop as well,
It’s electric soon, but will they sell?
Millions of cars with polluting fuel,
Millions of technicians each with a dismantling tool,
Shredding the leather, plastic, rubber parts,
Breaking many owners bank accounts and hearts.
The cost of change to this transportation asset,
Grown like Topsy with no regard and no respect.
Cut down to size on world health grounds,
Pollution, infection, financial worrying sounds.
We shall all have to tighten our belts,
Cut out luxuries even down to cheesy melts.
Cut our cloth lest we wear just rags,
No more sangria nor duty free fags.
From Book 2 – More Poems by an Old Codger – coming out later in 2021