I’m here to cruise on down to memory lane,
In my mind-boggling red-hot jalopy,
Like the Little Old Lady from Pasadena.
A convertible, preferably it doesn’t rain,
Can’t get the top up, but now I’m feeling no pain.
A young hunk tops the petrol tank,
Inspects my oil gage, says there’s no more than a drop.
I suspect it’ll cost some, so I open the door,
‘Hand me that can tossed under the plank,
I’ll fill ‘er myself, you blinkety blank.
I check out the gage, why heck it’s plumb full,
The young hunk, why he’s nothin’ but a fool.
Jump in my wreck, I head down the road.
In my rear-view mirror, the punk’s chargin’ like a bull
Then I recollects, forgot to pay that numbskull.