You’d never see Signor Bertone
ride into town upon his pony;
he’d always drive a Lamborghini,
for Nuccio was the sports car geni
who rubbed the chrome and lit the lamp,
and on each model put his stamp.
Ferrari Dino 308
not only was extremely great,
it had panache and class and style;
of money you would need a pile
to buy it, but to ride a mile
or many more would be worthwhile.
More so the Countach which would follow
Espada, Capistrano swallow
that heralded the spring whenever
a guy would ride it, looking clever––
you had to be extremely smart
to put this horse before your cart!
Giugiaro and Pinin Farina
made cars that were perhaps not meaner,
but none of them could cause furor
like mighty Nuccio’s Miura.
I’ve had two Jags, I’ve had a Rolls,
my present cars swim with the shoals,
Tercel, not great and very dull,
no racing pigeon, just a gull,
and an Accord that made by Honda
of which I’m marginally fonder.
I wish I’d had a Lamborghini,
a red one or perhaps a greeny,
but now it is too late, I roam
without pizzazz, with little chrome.
I can’t afford you, Nuccio––
my ex-wife shops at Gucci-oh.