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Here's a poem about an old house painter named John. I met him when he advertised to sell his manual car - turned out he needed to get an automatic - because one shoulder had cancer. Then, lol rather than take things easy, he fitted this new car with power steering, - and helped us with any problems we had with his old car as well 
. The fact that the car he sold us was a bit of a lemon (through bad luck as much as anything) is irrelevant - we got to meet John
(PS he particularly didnt like the new style petrol pumps becos you couldnt buy just a few components to repair them that old car was held together with wire and hundreds of home made bits he'd invented lol)
OLD JOHN
I first met Old John on a downhill slope, Though you’d barely know it to meet him,
A painter, enthused and brimming with hope, And a wonderful grin in his greeting,
And he sold me a car, well an old bomb at least , Though to him was like a blood brother,
And we chatted like guests at a wedding feast, As ones overcome by a youthful yeast, And each nut and each bolt in the rusty old beast
Triggered stories of this or the other.
And I bargained him down a few bucks on his price, Nine fifty ($950) the deal was set,
I didn’t exploit him, the man was too nice, But the petrol gauge said “barely wet!”
It was one of those cars where the value ranged, In phase with the gas level reading,
But I sensed it then that my life would be changed, Priorities questioned and rearranged, And my newfound friend would soon be estranged,
And his time was rapid receding.
He used to spar with a punching ball, Yet he had the kindest laugh
Till his shoulder refused to heed the call , And hung like a thin bag of charf
And he’d made a bench of wood in the shed, Where his tradesman skills were vented,
And a vegie patch with a broadbean bed, And the spare parts strewn where the brakes were bled, And you’d watch your step and you’d watch your head
Or you’d likely get em dented.
The reason he’d sold me his ‘Maggie’, his mate, Was an upgrade to automatic,
Cos his shoulder was just a bit lame of late, And his gearstick skills quite erratic,
“This is Sally” he said “my NEW Sigma wagon, And the twin except for the gears,
But she’s not up to Maggie, her chin keeps sagging, It could be the carby I carved from a flagon - , And here’s some spare parts all wrapped in raggin
- And the parting, it brings me to tears.”
Well the first week home the Welshplug blew, And the head cracked something cronic,
And the oil turned into a milky stew, And it coughed with a plague bubonic,
And Old John came round and helped us to strip, The motor – each element parted,
“That’s the crankshaft boys, where the horses grip, Ahh listen – the music as oildrops drip, And watch that that old timing gear doesn’t slip
Or we’ll never get her restarted.
Then a month went past and the gearstick broke -Came out like a magic wand,
If you hadn’t met John you’d suspect a sick joke, And you’d start to think you’d been conned,
But I ran into John in the hardware shop, And he said, ‘Wow! Let’s go look!
Cos I bet it’s the blue nut stripped and gone pop, By the way those beans are a fine fine crop, Any walls to paint? Any trees to lop?”
- But he knew that car like a book.
He was right of course and we fixed it up , Right there on our kerbside lawn,
Just a hint of remorse that he’d sold his pup, But no hint for himself to mourn,
And his shoulder now needed power steering, And he’d worked it out and he’d fitted it,
And I found it so blessedly warm and endearing, That his attitude grew from courage not fearing, And despite the bell of his sixth (6th) round nearing,
He’d tackled the task and outgritted it.
Then a month (last week) a call from his brother, And sadly he had to relate,
That Old John passed away and from what I can gather, He’d known of his imminent fate,
Yet each time I met him his eyes just glowed, With a grin and a “How are the boys?
Would you like the house painted? or furrow hoed? Or a horse to be broken ? or front lawn mowed? And How’s old Maggie sharing the load?
- She was one of my favourite toys.”
I can see him in overalls – patches sewed, With all of his gentle poise,
Just the kindest man – and how much it showed, And painting the gates of his new abode, And cracking some winged chariot’s code,
And adjusting its tappet noise. :engel:
. The fact that the car he sold us was a bit of a lemon (through bad luck as much as anything) is irrelevant - we got to meet John (PS he particularly didnt like the new style petrol pumps becos you couldnt buy just a few components to repair them
that old car was held together with wire and hundreds of home made bits he'd invented lol) OLD JOHN
I first met Old John on a downhill slope, Though you’d barely know it to meet him,
A painter, enthused and brimming with hope, And a wonderful grin in his greeting,
And he sold me a car, well an old bomb at least , Though to him was like a blood brother,
And we chatted like guests at a wedding feast, As ones overcome by a youthful yeast, And each nut and each bolt in the rusty old beast
Triggered stories of this or the other.
And I bargained him down a few bucks on his price, Nine fifty ($950) the deal was set,
I didn’t exploit him, the man was too nice, But the petrol gauge said “barely wet!”
It was one of those cars where the value ranged, In phase with the gas level reading,
But I sensed it then that my life would be changed, Priorities questioned and rearranged, And my newfound friend would soon be estranged,
And his time was rapid receding.
He used to spar with a punching ball, Yet he had the kindest laugh
Till his shoulder refused to heed the call , And hung like a thin bag of charf
And he’d made a bench of wood in the shed, Where his tradesman skills were vented,
And a vegie patch with a broadbean bed, And the spare parts strewn where the brakes were bled, And you’d watch your step and you’d watch your head
Or you’d likely get em dented.
The reason he’d sold me his ‘Maggie’, his mate, Was an upgrade to automatic,
Cos his shoulder was just a bit lame of late, And his gearstick skills quite erratic,
“This is Sally” he said “my NEW Sigma wagon, And the twin except for the gears,
But she’s not up to Maggie, her chin keeps sagging, It could be the carby I carved from a flagon - , And here’s some spare parts all wrapped in raggin
- And the parting, it brings me to tears.”
Well the first week home the Welshplug blew, And the head cracked something cronic,
And the oil turned into a milky stew, And it coughed with a plague bubonic,
And Old John came round and helped us to strip, The motor – each element parted,
“That’s the crankshaft boys, where the horses grip, Ahh listen – the music as oildrops drip, And watch that that old timing gear doesn’t slip
Or we’ll never get her restarted.
Then a month went past and the gearstick broke -Came out like a magic wand,
If you hadn’t met John you’d suspect a sick joke, And you’d start to think you’d been conned,
But I ran into John in the hardware shop, And he said, ‘Wow! Let’s go look!
Cos I bet it’s the blue nut stripped and gone pop, By the way those beans are a fine fine crop, Any walls to paint? Any trees to lop?”
- But he knew that car like a book.
He was right of course and we fixed it up , Right there on our kerbside lawn,
Just a hint of remorse that he’d sold his pup, But no hint for himself to mourn,
And his shoulder now needed power steering, And he’d worked it out and he’d fitted it,
And I found it so blessedly warm and endearing, That his attitude grew from courage not fearing, And despite the bell of his sixth (6th) round nearing,
He’d tackled the task and outgritted it.
Then a month (last week) a call from his brother, And sadly he had to relate,
That Old John passed away and from what I can gather, He’d known of his imminent fate,
Yet each time I met him his eyes just glowed, With a grin and a “How are the boys?
Would you like the house painted? or furrow hoed? Or a horse to be broken ? or front lawn mowed? And How’s old Maggie sharing the load?
- She was one of my favourite toys.”
I can see him in overalls – patches sewed, With all of his gentle poise,
Just the kindest man – and how much it showed, And painting the gates of his new abode, And cracking some winged chariot’s code,
And adjusting its tappet noise. :engel:
