The health inspector knocked upon my door the other day,
And he asked me: "Is it true what all your neighbors have to say?
That your garage is full of Crosleys from the back up to the door,
And you've got so many cars there that you can't quite see the floor?
And then they say the shed out back enjoys a similar fate,
Which might explain the chassis and the fenders by the gate?
And all these engines stacked right here, though some look very rusted,
Will start and run quite loudly,
At least the motors that aren't busted?"
So then I asked him in to have a little look around,
And when he saw my kitchen, he just closed his eyes and frowned,
Because he didn't catch onto this great hobby I have got.
You just can't leave them out there so they'll ruin, rust and rot!
I like to hunt for Crosleys, in whatever shape they be,
And bring them back to life again. It fills me full of glee
To clean them and to paint them, and to get them so they run.
Some folks have other hobbies, but to me, I'm having fun.
And it's hard to turn down Crosley cars that stare out from the weeds,
So that explains my multitude of parts beyond my needs.
He sighed and said "But all this stuff is more than you can store!
Do something soon. I'm getting calls! Your neighbor's getting sore!
Your heirs will only sell it all. Kids now don't care less
About their family heirlooms. They say it's just a mess.
When it's time, the kids will look for money and your bling.
They'll stand above your grave and ask: 'Did you get the ring?' "