At Felder Industries, we all wear many hats. I recently broke short a
design session, where we were attempting to increase the complexity and
cost of an outdoor lantern holder for the Westy, to examine for myself the
situation in our Men’s Room, of which many complaints have come to my
recent attention. I will not delve into the outcome of my visit, to turn a
pun, but I was bemused by a rhyme I found written on one of the stalls in
the style of a popular children’s author whom I cannot place exactly. Maybe
Mark Twain?

I thought I would share this before the employee who wrote it—a chap with
entirely too much time on his hands at the expense of yours truly—is made
to scour it off.

We at Felder Industries hope that it elicits the mirth among the Vanagon
faithful as it did among those who toil so relentlessly for them.

*Broken Things Are Everywhere*

Hop.

Hop on top.

Hop on top, said Mom to Pop.

I cannot do that now, said Pop.

I have to go into my shop.

I cannot do that right now, Mom.

I’m working on my Vanagon.

——————————————-

This never stops, said Mom to Pop.

You work, work, work, work, work, work, work,

Then hear a ping, or poof, or WHOP!

Heater valve or Westy top,

A zip, or rip, or flip or flop.

We never go, we only stay.

Our vacations are delays!

The burning insulation’s shot!

These seats are ugly! They look awful!

And they smell just like Falafel.

Another smell much like like a wok

Is coming from behind the clock.

The sweet perfume of antifreeze

Will cause the trees to drop their leaves

If it’s not stopped!

And yet you say it can’t be fixed

Till you return it to the hicks

That weld upon it in the sticks.

The driveway’s flooded—thanks a lot!

It’s all a dusty, rusty rot.

I’m tired of this, go find a cot.

————————————————

Why won’t it start? Why won’t it start?

We should be driving to the park.

The heat is cold. The lights are dark.

Just replacing every part

Should make it start. But yet

It won’t. I want to cry.

But yet I don’t. Those tears are not

From sadness but from parts so hot…

What could be the cause of this?

I do not know.

Go ask the List.

From there to here

From here to there

Broken things are everywhere!

————-

Every weekend I have shown it:

If it works I do not own it.

I can’t afford the things that work.

I only work where gremlins lurk.

I buy on eBay from a man

Who has a rusty salvage van

With a rating now of three

And all his sales are thanks to me,

With parts no better than the ones

With which I’m having all my fun.

I promise that I will not buy

From him again. But it’s a lie.

I need so much, but cannot purchase

Good parts to raise this van from worthless.

All that work. What have I missed?

I do not know. Go ask the List.

From there to here, from here to there,

Broken things are everywhere.

—————————————

All our money goes for tools

and cleanup where the motor drools.

Where oil and water mix in pools.

It does not work. I do not learn.

I’d rather see our money burn

Than let the dealer have a turn.

But that would take more than I earn.

The dealer knows but will not say

He would not touch it anyway.

Holy cow! We have brakes—Oh No!

That means the clutch is next to blow.

The two are worked together so,

If you fix one, the other goes.

Oh, no, it did not start with me!

That plan was hatched in Germany.

But now it runs. What was that hiss?

Stinky steam or piston mist?

I do not know. Go ask the List.

From there to here, from here to there,

Broken things are everywhere.

——————————-

See me underneath the car?

Hurling tools and curses far?

Do you see my arms with scars?

I’m soaking wet!

I’m oily-oiled. My dreams are smashed.

My plans are foiled.

I cannot see. My yard is soiled.

And not with dirt that flowers grow in,

But with things you cannot go in.

Nowhere is it safe to mow in.

Turn up the sound! Where is the knob?

The neighbors cannot hear me sob.

They must not, should not hear the throb.

I cannot let them hear me so,

Whose yard is stacked around with parts

In plastic bins and garden carts,

Not to mention row on row

Of Vanagons that will not go.

They think I am a fool, I know

I do not let on that it’s so.

From there to here, and here to there,

Broken things are everywhere.

From everywhere and everyone,

Broken parts of Vanagons.

I will not live to see them run

or ever have the funny fun

I imagined that I *would* have

in the Vanagon I *could* have.

——————————————

I heard somewhere that there is one

That always runs, and runs and runs.

All day long, and hour on hour

it conquers hills with lots of power,

With sensors Oil, Temp 2 and Hall

That never heard the rollback’s call.

It runs as quiet as a mouse

And costs more money than a house.

But I am stuck with what I own.

I shake my head. I cringe. I moan!

My children smirk. My wife berates

As my van coughs and hesitates

Before retuning to its berth.

I try to calculate its worth

In windshield, bumpers, tach and parts

But when I do, that’s when it starts.

It starts and runs, it runs and starts!

Come, honey and come, kids! Run!

Let’s hit the road, let’s have our fun!

Hooray, hooray, my work is done!

Now it’s time to go, and play,

With spares and tools and Triple-A,

The German monster’s underway!

What’s sounding like a pounding fist?

I do not know. Go ask the List.

From there to here, from here to there,

Broken things are everywhere.