I don’t know about you but
I’ve avoided writing poems
turning working hands, at David Browns’,
on pinion, spur and helical gear
although, cogitating now by a winding river,
distant cars are meshing male and female parts;
gearbox dreams of speed and torque.
He worked on every Aston Martin
James Bond drove
so he saved the world
and he loved, he loved,
a beer and chat.
I don’t know about you.