Doyle's Flivver Poem by Matthew Buchwald

Doyle's flivver broke down on a winter's day
When the wind was fierce as a wounded lion
That fell from a cliff and broke its vertebrae;
So Doyle shivered until he felt like dying.

Atop a cliff a lioness roared
Like the wind howling down a mountainside
That ends in the ice of a frozen fiord;
While Doyle worked hard, so his missus cried.

His sore palms cracked from the cold and wind
Like ice on a fiord by the storm-tossed sea
Where the whirlpool devours sailors who've sinned,
And nobody hears a wife's pitiful plea.

Poor Doyle worked hard till he froze to death,
And his forlorn wife breathed her last breath.