Mechanic

I am a Mechanic

I fix

And build

Lamborghinis

Mustangs

F-22 Raptors

And MiG-31mellieniums

I am the boss

Of the shop

My assistant is nicknamed

The Colonel

And for that

He and his

Sergeant and Lieutenant

Help me out

Around the shop

Doing favors such as carrying the

Bits and parts

Of what the newest project is concerned of.

The clicks

The beeps

And tapping

And creaking

Of the looks.

Working on a new project

Working on the feel

Working on the engine

Working on the bits and pieces

Taking something out and tossing

It to the Colonel who throws it

All out.

I am sad to say

That some planes never really made it

And some cars just remain unfinished

Some planes

I’ll take it to a show

Take off

Fly around

And land just as spectacular

As I took off.

An audience

Who applauses for my newer planes

I greatly appreciate

Although

They just don’t know what happens

In the shop

The annoyance of the urgency

To create a plane or start working

On a new Mustang

Or a new Raptor

Late at night

When no one is around.

My concentration is drawn

My annoyance when I get the urge

And when I get the urge

I can’t think of anything else

But the blueprints

And design for a better one

Then before

But in the end

Whether I take you for one of the smoothest rides

Or I take you for one that you’ll be screaming from the speed      

I’ll put you in awe at how fast I can go.

But back at the shop

Sometimes a jet or car

If I can’t work on it

When the blueprints just don’t lead to anything

It goes to the back

Into the lot

Until I might come back to it

And try to bring it back to life

Or I might just take something critical out

And put it into a car or jet

That’ll work better with it.

But in the end of the day

People are in awe for

What I fix and invent

But they just don’t realize the miseries behind it

I just feel cursed

To be this lousy mechanic.