HIMS I HATE

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 52, 24 May 1927, Page 11

HIMS I HATE

If there’s one thing: more than any other puts me in a panic. It is leaving my small coupe in the care of a mechanic; For the spanner-wielder who’s not greasy has not yet been seen; With joy he plasters finger-prints on bonnet, guards and screen; In oily clothes he squats on plush I guard with jealous zeal; Parks oil cans on the running boards, and rubs grease on the wheel. The mess he makes in one short hour fills me with rage—for damme I know' it means more hours of toil with brush and hose and chamois.

And let me sing a hymn of hate At that smug battery man Who, finding one corroded plate, Tries out this knavish plan: “Your batt’ry isn’t wrorth repair,” (His smile he tries to smother, Then dons a brusque and busy air). “Let’s quote you for another.” Unto the list of hates I add That juvenile apprentice Who’s sometimes left in charge by “dad”

To trobule and torment us. Invited to produce some tape and mend a broken wire, He’ll blow the fuse-box out of shape And hurriedly retire; Then blink, and say: “Ain’t that a cow? “I’m no Teetrician, any’owT* But most of all I hate those frequent adenoidal boys Who stand with mouths agape, and stare, and find untimely Joys In scenes which turn strong men to tears —or fill their hearts with ire: A driver searching for a short; or wrestling with a tyre. They love to see a motorist become a sw-eating sight; And if he has to turn the crank—their eyes pop with delight. But by the time they’ve grown to men (this thought makes me dejected) There’ll be no chance to gape at them. Cars will have been perfected. Upon them my rich curses fall: I hate them all. I hate them all. —G. REECE-GUNN.