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At first I stood open mouthed To watch the Cavalcade, Though it were a century on Here was history made. The square shapes, the bulbous round, The sleek low aerofoils. Ringing gears, slapping pistons, And age blacked quart sided coils. Wooden cartwheels, solid tyres, The low pressure wide track slicks, The narrow gauge spokeless discs, And cross country rubber tricks. Purring voice of gentlemans carriage, Crackling Grand Prix roar, Chuff chuff where the steam appears. And silky, wet lined bore. Monster Mammoth, Bren gun track, Axles three or four, Speed of sound in record breaker, Or walking pace with foot to floor. Squeezed in tig ht, sit up and beg, Rows of seats in omnibus, Tight entrance place opening forward, Or chauffeur driven, much less fuss. But then, out there in giant parade, Miss Ellie, a toast in Champagne, Becketts, Stow, Club and Woodcote, And Hangar Straight's fast lane. Until the black white flag appears And marshall waves to slow The skoda, young at ninety one, Is sad and loathe to go. |