There's a graveyard in our street,
But it's not for putting people in;
The bodies they bury here
Are made of steel and paint and tin.
The people come and leave their wrecks
For crunching in the giant jaws
Of a great hungry car-machine,
That lives on bonnets, wheels and doors
When I pass by the yard at night,
I sometimes think I here a sound
Of ghostly horns that moan and whine ,
Upon that metal- graveyard mound.
-Unknown-