When I tried to register my home-made car,
Built in the backyard at the cost of fifty-seven cents,
And constructed mostly of twine and twigs,
My government, who loves me, took me gently aside.
"My boy," it said, "It seems that you are not properly
Worshipful of our currency.
This cannot be considered, a car.
It does not cost nearly enough.
For that reason alone it can never pass emissions."
I went home dejected, but desirous of transportation.
How could I appease my government, who loves me?
Having found a suitable vehicle, I sold a kidney
And made a down payment.
To pay off the rest of my financing,
I took a job at Monopoly Mart
(Which involved learning the Company Song, "Monopoly Mart Polka,"
And entailed giving up my self-employed position
As Calibrator of Earthly Gravity
And Generator of the Stars' Twinkle).
It was worth it, I guess.
Now I can go to the store without wearing out my shoes.
Each day before turning the key in the ignition
I bow and say a prayer before the dollar sign
That my needed supply of the blessed substance does not elude me.
Recently, I saw my government, who loves me, and it beamed.
"Welcome back to the fold, my boy," it said.
"I knew you'd see it my way. Oh, and by the way,
Could you give me a lift into town?
Somehow, I forgot to get my driver's license,"
Ha, ha! Oh, how we guffawed!
Tomorrow I am going to sell my remaining kidney.
