Motor Martyrdom

I never have clung to a motor car, Or crouched on a motor bike. Worry and scurry, clank and jar I cordially dislike. I do not care for grimy hair, For engines that explode, But of one and all I've the put and call, For I live on the Ripley Road. I drank the country breeze at first, Unsoiled by fetid fumes, But now I am cursed with a constant thirst That parches and consumes. I am choked and hit with smoke and grit When I venture from my abode ; My pets are maimed and my eyes inflamed, For I live on the Ripley Road. I pass my days in a yellow fog, My nights in a dreadful dream, Haunted by handlebar, clutch and cog, And eyes that goggle and gleam. I am not robust, but I dine on dust Gratuitously bestowed, And for twopence I'll sell my house in the dell By the side of the Ripley Road.