How many miles left?
Can my tires make it, or have they corded out already?
Am I driving on rims?
Move, please I beg of you, get me there. Take me back where I was when I felt something other than this hollow emptiness that now echoes my marbled halls.
You sputter with one last puff of black smoke. I rest my head on the steering wheel, realizing this Rube Goldberg device stopped working long ago.
I don't care to lift the hood and diagnosis the issue, finding a remedy for your fluctuation.
So I'll just leave you here, with a white t-shirt in the window, but I'm not coming back.