New Year’s Rhyme:

Bring me carcasses for the whole year.

I want a January stuffed with Pandas,
a July of sunny Volkswagens, a crazy March where only Maseratis crash;

I want a press that compresses ceaselessly,
a wave-filled sea of metal sheets made for this purpose;

I want a shattered and demolished rear window,
an engine block that oozes oil from every bolt;

and let the Duna and the Arna be friends,
piling up heaps of crumpled metal.

If I stretch too much, don’t say a word,
just give me a filthy and dirty face instead.