richard said he'd buy my car

Elvis is moving on. As I am. Alas, my transport metamorphoses into the public. Private moments where noone can reach me, can anyone see me?, shattered by sweaty armpits at rush hour.

Elvis, it's been a delight. Where have I been that you have not? What have you not witnessed? The romance. The tears. The crumbs. You are the king and together we ruled the road. Divided Belfast soil fills your treads, tartan winds of Edinburgh blow from your exhaust and millage, racked, from caring. You sang along to Ally's busking in traffic and still bounce the beats of Soul Survivor.

But there's fist marks in your steering from London. It's those fist marks that convince me you're not city bound. And, alas, I am poor. Public alone. Does anyone want to buy my mobile?