Imperial Chrysler for Christmas,
                   immaculately conceived from inner tube
                   to bright dome light,
                   swaddled in lambrequin and caracul,
                   sheer glory and stable, roll.

                   For three years the "miracle performance,"
                   prophesied by bright-eyed salesmen, lasts:
                   horns bleating, you drive yourself,
                   become the shepherd and the lamb;
                   your radiating beams wash the blind
                   night into a lambent day, leaving a
                   halo around the heads of light;
                   you stop for strays and the lame,
                   generate life in the dead cells,
                   leave undefiled the soft shoulders
                   as you make a U turn to the right;
                   your gleaming grill is like a net
                   to catch kingfishers as you drive.
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