THE WORM TURNS by BERTON BRALEY

You can drive an old hunk of scrap-iron and junk
Which was once called a Regular Car,
And you will not detect any rude disrespect
From people you meet, near or far.
Your brakes may be busted, your chassis all rusted,
Your cylinders leaky and scored,
But no one gets flip when you go on a trip
—They save all that stuff for a Ford!

Yes, every one shouts at a Ford!
The high mucky-mucks and the horde;
Your neat little flivver
May not show a quiver
And ride like a Rolls to the people on board,
But every one thinks it's a part of the code
To pull funny cracks at a fliv on the road,
And rivers of humor on flivvers are poured,
Every one yells at a Ford!

Now I own a Lizzie efficient and busy
Which chugs along merry and bright,
I'm fond of it, too, for the things it will do;
I drive it with joy and delight;
And I'm a bit sick of the smart-aleck trick
Which cannot be wholly ignored
Of those who feel free to be ribald with me
Because I am driving a Ford.

For every one yells at a Ford!
My feelings are mangled and gored;
And I'm getting weary
Of japes that are dreary,
Exhumed from the boneyard where they have been stored.
My wrath grows more hot as I chug-chug along,
A joke or two more and I'll tear through the throng
And slaughter with poison, gun, bombshell and sword
The bozos who yell at my Ford!

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