Tales of the Workshop
by Robert W. Service-Advisor. :)

Mechanics that Vanish

Strange tales oft repeat, when you talk of the heat
In the summers down south, I am told.
'Bout the hot steady glare from the sun way up there
That makes you thristing for anything cold.

When the heat, as it rises, can shrink you two sizes,
And your sweat sticks your clothes to the skin,
When the dogs all retreat, 'neath the porch, from the heat,
Where some cooler it always has been.

When the lack of fresh air being moved anywhere
In the shop, where the walls seem to close,
Makes the sweat streaming down, cross your furrow-like frown,
Run like water from the end of a hose.

On one hot summer's day, at least so they say,
There came in a bus, a Volkswagen,
To the shop for repair, something broke under there,
But the poor mechs were really now dragging.

They were white as a sheet, but this job they'd complete,
That they swore to the owner who waited.
Then they staggered and swore, as they opened the door,
Cranked the bus and drove in where it's shaded.

Well, the hours went by, and the closing drew nigh,
As the owner grew twitchy and nervous.
So he spoke to the boss, as he now was quite cross,
And inquired 'bout the length of his service.

"Well, it shoulda been through," the boss said, through his chew,
"And I don't know what's taking so long."
So they walked through the door to the mech's working floor,
And found the bus, as if nothing was wrong.

The ticket was there on the floor, which was bare
Except for a very large puddle
But the mechs were not found anywhere there around,
As the owner searched all through the muddle.

So the bus owner paid for the work that had made
All his broken parts mended again,
And he happily drove to his home in the grove
With no thought of the missing repairmen.

And the boss never knew what had taken his crew,
>From their jobs, which they left and deserted,
Cause they never returned for their tools or pay earned,
Which in storage has since been inserted.

But the story that grew, from the folks round who knew,
When with beers in a bar they'd get belted,
Was those mech's didn't stray, and are still there today:
The poor bastards had simply just melted.