Tales of the Workshop
   by Robert W. Service-Advisor

             Mechanics that Vanish

      Oh, the stories we hear, like the stars in the sky,
         Have all been encountered before,
      But just when you think that you've heard of them all,
         A new one will drive through the door.

Strange tales oft repeat, when you talk of the heat
In the summers down South, I am told.
'Bout the hot steady glare from the sun way up there
That makes you crazy for anything cold.

When the lack of fresh air being moved anywhere
In the shop makes the walls seem to close,
And the sweat streaming down, cross your furrow-like frown,
Runs like water from the end of a hose.

On one hot summer's day, at least so they say,
There came in a bus, a Volkswagen,
To the shop for repair, something broke under there,
But the poor mechs were now really dragging.

They were white as a sheet, but this job they'd complete,
That they promised the owner who waited.
Then they staggered and swore, as they opened the door,
Cranked the bus and drove in where it's shaded.

Well, the hours went by, til the closing drew nigh,
And the owner grew twitchy and nervous.
So he spoke to the boss, as he now was quite cross,
And inquired 'bout the length of his service.

"Well, it shoulda been through," said the boss through his chew,
"And I don't know what's taking so long."
So they walked through the door to the shop's working floor
And found the bus, as if nothing was wrong.

The ticket was there on the floor, which was bare
Except for a very large puddle.
But the mechs were not found anywhere near around,
Though the boss had searched all through the muddle.

Then the bus owner paid for the work that had made
All his broken parts mended again,
And he happily drove to his home in the grove
With no thought of the missing repairmen.

So the boss never knew what had taken his crew
From their jobs, which they left and deserted,
For they never returned for their tools or pay earned
Which in storage has since been inserted.

But the story that grew, from the people that knew,
When with beers in a bar they'd get belted,
Was those mech's didn't stray and are still there today:
The poor bastards had simply just melted.

      Oh, the stories we hear, like the stars in the sky,
         Have all been encountered before,
      But just when you think that you've heard of them all,
         A new one will drive through the door.