Song of the Car-Tire-Swan

I’m an icon of Australiana, more famous than the big banana, a monument on all the highways, I even snooze on forgotten byways.

So the revolution goes on and on, but not for me, I’m never gone. I’m just stuck here on these eternal verges, a prisoner of my carnal urges.

You see, I spied a girl swan down the lane, she looks quite pliable and not too plain. She could be a Bridgestone, Dunlop or better, if she was a Michelin I’d send a French letter.

I’d like to fertilize an egg in her 14 inch belly but with my kind of luck, we’d hatch a Pirelli. So here I loll in unrequited lust as deflated as the day my inner tube bust.

As for that 50’s wannabe, the plaster duck, us Latex brotherhood reckon they suck. If they were out here where the rain doth pelt, the chalky bastards would probably melt.

Not sure how I got into this situation, probably a case of over inflation, Guess I just happened to be down on my tread, back in the day when petrol had lead.

Thus we sit here like rubbery figures, impervious to the traveller’s sniggers. Inscrutable guardian of things kitsch and homely, never dull, but by God its lonely.

© 2006 Fred Olsen