To wrench, or not to wrench, that is the question—
Whether 'tis Cheaper in the mind to sling
Outrageous Fortunes at the stealership,
Or to take wrenches against a Sea of troubles,
And by Clymer's Ink end them? To tune, to mod—
No more; and by the ride, to say we end
The butte-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to wrench. To tune, to mod,
To mod, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that work of wrench, what dreams may come,
When we have cut off this ignition coil,
That gave us pause. There's the aspect
That makes Calamity of so long a life;
For who could bear the Corrosion and Scratches of time,
The Previous Owners wrong, the tax man's levy,
The pangs of despised V-twins, the Law’s decree,
That insolence of the DMV Office,
and the Spurns of the unworthy caged,
When he himself might ride With bare head?
Who would these Liberals bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary Helm,
Perchance to be injured and laid bare,
To leave the undiscovered Country,
from roads bourn No Rider returns,
And makes us rather bear those hungers we have,
And fly to cities that we know not of.
Thus Cost does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Paint
Is sprayed o'er, with the dark cast of Black,
And chains of great pitch and length,
With this Mod their rpms turn slower,
And lose the harm of Vibration.
Softly now, Hand and feet. no longer Buzzing,
In all thy Fingers and toes,
Come Monday, all my bills remembered.
(poor Shakespeare)
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