The Mechanic's Tale

this was something i wrote last year as a continuation of the Canterbury Tales by Jeffery Chaucer. it was a school project...

Slumping through the bus station,

Clutching the tickets he stole with no hesitation.

Smiling greedily he thought,

"Never will I be caught,

So well I covered my tracks

Those insolent people will never reveal the facts.”

 

Grease rolling off his fat grimy hands,

Streaking the floor in long thin bands.

The fluorescent lights above his bald head,

Revealed the man to be very well fed.

Never will you see a man in any a time

With teeth so black and full of grime.

 

For a living people’s cars he fixed,

But used only his money to get nasty chicks.

Loading his bags onto the bus,

Hearing all the others fuss.

Thinking of his trip to Arizona

And how he’ll enjoy many a Corona.

 

As he walked to his seat

He passed someone he did not want to meet.

Twas the original owner of his ticket,

Moving past her silent as a cricket.

To his seat he went and sat.

Never did he think of that,

To see the ditz of his most recent con

Occupying the same bus he was on.

 

The driver had an idea so bright

The entire east coast it could light.

Each passenger would tell four stories.

And the winner would receive many glories.

 

The first to shoot for the goal

Was the rich, yet stupid Hillbilly Joel.

Followed by a hitman, model, and cheerleader so dippy.

Next came the President disguised as a hippie.

 

Finally it was the mechanic’s turn

And what a person he chose to burn.

“My tale starts with a very fake tan,”

The sly mechanic began,

“And a supermodel who’s head is filled with smoke.

In order to get some tickets she had to sell some coke.

 

This certain supermodel was so thin,

A walking stick she could have been.

Her hair was a fake bleach blonde,

Of diamonds and pearls she was fond.

The bleach must have seeped way down to her brain

For her stupidity brought those around her much pain.

 

But what the dope didn’t know,

Was she left her convertible top down low.

She handed me the diamond studded keys,

And said, ‘Like excuse me please…

There’s black stuff leaking out of my car,

It’s gross and smells like tar!’

 

‘Sure I can fix it for a small fee,

900 bucks and a set of your keys.’

She stood there for a moment and finally said

‘There’s nothing wrong with that off the top of my head.’

So when she left I changed the oil,

Then opened the glove box with no need for toil.

 

There I found the tickets shining so brightly,

When she returned I said very politely,

‘Here is your car with everything fixed and nice,

Only because you paid me in full price.’

But this brainless supermodel had no clue,

I stole her tickets to Superbowl Forty-Two.

 

So the moral of my story goes like this,

Always take advantage of a little miss priss.”