(another one, shamelessly stolen from another car list, by that English
Auto-Poet ... this one about the long-suffering wives of men who spend more
time with their cars than they should).

	WOMAN'S ANGLE
		by W. H. Charnock

He is with Her; the frowning garage portal
Forbids me now to threaten or implore;
Only remains, to show he still is mortal,
An oily-handled teacup on the floor.

The hirsute grass pleads mutely for the mower,
And other wives laugh gaily with their men,
But they have not acquired a worn out blower
Nor sought to fit it to a Gormless Ten.

My piteous Sunday joint, uncooked, unheeded,
With Monday's laundering now must interfere;
Let shoes go dirty, flower beds unweeded,
As long as Vulcan gets his bottled beer.

We might have gone to Mother's, oiled the mangle,
Unstopped the sink or fixed the kitchen shelves,
But men don't understand the woman's angle,
They only think of motors and themselves.

Each sunlit hour becomes to me a menace,
The man at Number Four repaints his gate,
While in her new M.G. takes off for tennis,
That tarty creature down at Number Eight,

While here in Number Six I wait and wonder
Why Sunday papers more than others pall,
Till, as the garage doors bust wide asunder,
He tramples oil marks all about the hall.

Leaves the wash basin with a greasy inset,
Demands his food and slaps me on the back,
(Damp and dingy prints upon my precious twin set),
And on loose covers signs his seat in black.

And cannot understand why I, downhearted,
Watch sadly the declining Sunday sun.
"The blower, darling? Lord, I haven't started,
"But next week-end perhaps I'll get it done."