A thought.it reads:
The car, what is it really --
The man sees just a machine
Is that though what it has been
But a means for man till he
Find a more natural course
Acquire a finer iron horse?
Consider; it breathes like you
Into its lungs it hungrily draws
The air, and its inner laws
Burn a heart of fire too
To idle, to pace, to run
Spring forth at the sound of a gun;
But its parts are rare and strange
Did you ever see one growing
In the lawn, when you were mowing
How the world must rearrange
To form a body that begets their kind
What mothers, what fathers did you find?
And we see trace of their tread
The built-things of genius they remain
Black tire or oil or no such stain
And these are not to them dead
But help bring them to life as well
The extent of but one; who can tell?
Unseen life, an order is born
A soul of men in want of going on
A body of all industrial brawn
A thought of the sounding of a horn
Pace, pace, impatient filly
The car what is it, really?