My dresses are bound with leather,
I turn up my collar like auto-folk,
And stride through the pitiless weather;
With a pound of scrag in an old string bag,
In a tram with a child on my lap,
Wherever I go, to shop or a show,
I wear a motor cap.
I don't know a silencer from a clutch,
A sparking-plug from a bearing,
But no one, I think, is in closer touch