"The Driver"                         by Graeme Cook

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Some folk drive for transport, just a means unto an end,      
They treat cars as a mere machine and not a trusted friend,  
Concerned only for the badge in front, how bright it may be shining,
And the many pretty toys inside, their egos there defining.
The driver sees it differently, with their car becomes a part,       
Take the road together, hit the road, with a single beating heart,     
The turbo's rising wail, and the exhaust's muscled, subtle growl,     
To the driver's ear, an orchestra, there's music in that howl.