THE GREEN CAR IN THE YELLOW LONDON FOG
by Bernard Newman ( With apologies to Milton Hayes ) There’s a little green two-seater which was blighted in its bud There’s a dirty ditch outside of London Town There’s a broken-hearted driver who is lying in the mud Where the green car for ever holds him down. He was known as Bully Nye in the land of Peckham Rye And he never had a penny to his name But one day while playing Ludo - using coins that were pseudo He won a little fortune at the game. To a mart in Piccadilly went our hero, this same Billy And he bought a motor car that very day At least, he bought a Ford - it was all he could af-ford And he jumped inside and started right away. The car began to hop it - and he found he couldn’t stop it For he’d never driven any car before He left the shop at five, and as sure as I’m alive He ‘d been there and back again by ten-to-four. But worse was still to come - with a thunder like a drum The gathering gloom set all the wheels agog His face turned ghastly white as the daylight turned to night ‘Twas the falling of the London yellow fog. He clung tightly to the wheel, and he heard a frightened squeal As he cut a passing pussy-cat in two Then another frenzied wail, as a Manx Cat lost its tail And the yellow air with curses turned to blue. The conveyance he had bought was at heart a juggernaut And it claimed the road it’s own, just like a hog Dogs essayed to bark and bite as it swerved from left to right And many a bark went home without its dog. The poor driver, overawed, cursed this never-stopping Ford It ought to have been taxed out by the Tories He would cuff it, kick it, clout it, well - all he knew about it All he knew of concerning Fords was funny stories. Though in size it was a bantam, it flashed by like ghostly phantom Many casualties figured in its log Others thought they had D.T.’s and signed the pledge upon their knees As they saw the green car in the yellow fog. A p’liceman tried to stop it, he didn’t progress very far He was very soon too overcome to speak He stood with hand uplifted, then his position shifted And his funeral will take place Sunday week. A lamp-post stood like a rock, but could not withstand the shock As the car passed to an unknown destination Though it knocked the engine out, with a wild, triumphant shout The car kept running on its reputation. The gear box went at Gloucester, where he ran o’er a coster And the axel broke in passing o’er a dump And at every turn and corner p’licemen popped up like Jack Horner But all poor Billy felt was just a bump. The horn fell off at Wapping, wrapped round a ladies stocking And the mudguards said, “Good-bye” at Old St Giles The seat collapsed at Jarrow, the speedometer at Harrow After it has Eton up the miles. The seat fell out at Fulham, and the back wheels left at Pulham The magnito blew itself to bits at Deal And as he passed by Earl’s Court Station, Billy found in consternation There was nothing left except the steering wheel. Still it ran in its mad flight, through the dark and stormy night With the air as firm as any Irish bog And the soldiers brave and tireless, they’d been called out by the wireless Chased the green car right through the yellow fog. But at last the car seemed tired, and the sparking plug misfired And one last expiring gurgle it did belch Then to right it seemed to pitch, heaving Billy in the ditch And he fell into its slimy ooze thus - squelch. There’s a little green two-seater which was blighted in its bud There’s a dirty ditch outside of London Town There’s a broken-hearted driver who is lying in the mud Where the green car for ever holds him down.
The end