My friend asked what had happened to my car.

Alas, poor Betsy! I knew her, Benjamin: an auto
of infinite gas, of most excellent transport: she hath
borne me on these roads a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred her safety inspection is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hang those sway bars that have rusted I know
just how bad. Where be her stability now? her
bushings? her spring? her new petroleum tank
without which she may leave a fiery trail? Not one,
now, to mock public transport? No more speeding?
Now, get her to the mechanic's place, and tell him I
cannot pay him soon, but this favour he must
do; make him laugh at that.