I turn the key over and with a little luck, thick white smoke clogs the air
We pull out of her resting place and her eight horse, four cylinder chugs along
I feel her vibrations tickle my toes and somehow through the noise my mind begins to clear

She was a hundred dollar bill on a saturday sale, sure some rust showed through
Her colors not as brilliant when she came off the line, her bolts rattled, the muffler popped and seat was gone from years of wear and tear

An old gray seat fit her perfect, a little sanding and the smell of paint fresh from the can
We embarked on our first journey, the grass brown and muddy, full of winter sticks and whatever the ole basset Copper had dragged in
But she didn’t care, she buckled down as the blade turned on, a quick pop and a flash of smoke and we were gone

We mowed all day, pretty much, hitting some electric fence wiring, human error
But after forty-five minutes of stalemate, she was ready to go again
And as what she does for me, she clears my mind and soul; whatever I give her she pays me tenfold

If only the auctioneer could see what she does, look at her rust and stratches
See her character; he might of put a couple zeros at the end when she sold