Motor leaker, motor leakage—asphalt-hue goo
is pasted on perfect pavement for a mile,
and it’s slipp’ry as the slick skin of a fugu
that’s been sitting in a fritzed fridge for a while.

Folks don’t smile, ’cause up they’re riled at motor leaker.
Out on the highway, how, why, what way’d it start?
Many streams have been brought from outpour mess
in a tide there; tires slide there.
In rainstorms it congeals, motor’s leakage.
Lost is control, and the car rolls and breaks apart.

Folks don’t smile, ’cause up they’re piled from motor’s leakage.
Off from the highway the car did fast depart.
Many screams are then wrought. . .gore-outpour mess;
someone cried there; no one died there.
But now warmth can they feel—motor leakage!
A fuel-line hole; then out they roll; explosions start.

Motor leakage, motor wreakage.