Type Dancing

Today, my master called me a “junker”
And I cannot understand why.
I am not one of those dive bombers
The Nazis used over Britain,
And I certainly am no fancy watch.
And though I believe Hugo Junkers,
The German inventor, was a great man,
He had nothing to do with me.

I also know nothing of the “Junkers”
In the Star Wars movie I once saw at
A country Drive-in theater.
They were people from the
Junk planet of Lotho Minor
Who armed themselves with anything
They could find from the heaps of garbage that
Other planets dumped on their polluted orb.

And I certainly have nothing in common
With the Junker class of Germany,
The so-called “Country squires,”
The landowner elite who once ruled Prussia
And controlled the military until Hitler came along.
No, I am just a Beetle, a Bug, a car for the people
Cheap, simple – not one of those fancy-pants
Porsche, Audi and BMWs.

But, today my owner, the fourth or fifth I’ve had
(it’s hard to keep track), said he might
Turn me in for some “Cash for Junkers” program.
Some call it “Cash for Clunkers,” but I am neither.
I am still road worthy, though there’s some
Rusted through spots on my floorboard
That turn into puddles when driving
Through washed out country lanes.

And, so what If my antenna
Was snapped off by my master’s son
Who used it as a light saber in some silly game?
The radio doesn’t work anyway
And only received AM stations when it did.
I don’t understand why it has come to this
I can still go. I’m no Junker
I’m merely old.