Car Valet

Down in Stanley, near the pub and green, Lives a man who keeps the motors clean. Not a knight, nor doctor, nor lord with a hat— Just Dave the valet — and he’s proud of that. He scrubs the Fords and buffs the Beemers, Cleans out crisp bags, wipes off streamers, Finds lost chips between the seats, And once—a slipper, and some old receipts. He’s seen it all, the stains, the muck, The backseat crimes of takeaway luck. But give him soap, a sponge, a song, He’ll make your banger shine all day long. He talks to cars like dear old friends: “Come on, love, we’ll make amends.” And when the job’s done, gleaming bright, He nods and says, “That’ll do right.” They call him Derby’s clean machine, A hero armed with wax and sheen. He’ll joke, “It’s not art, just elbow grease— But Picasso never cleaned a Nissan, at least!” So raise your tea, or pint, or cheer, For the valet who keeps it crystal clear. In Stanley’s lanes, beneath the grey, Dave makes the dull world shine each day.

Top geezer, gave my car a good seeing to!

Sorted me right out