Whose Secret presence through the Motor’s Veins

Whose Secret presence through the Motor’s Veins Running Quicksilver-like defies our pains; Cutting up tricks from here to Jericho,— We try to start the Car,—but it Remains!

Strange, is it not, that of the Myriads who Have Empty Tanks and know not what to do, Not one will Tell of it when he Returns! As for Ourselves,—why, we Deny it too.

What! Out of Oily Nothing to invoke A Powerful Something, born of Fire and Smoke! An Unremitting Pleasure, if it goes; An Everlasting Worriment, if broke.

We are no other than a Moving Row Of Automobile Cranks that come and go. And what with Goggles and Tale-windowed Veils, In Motoring Get-up, we’re a Holy Show!