A grand symphony of gears, tires, and tar

It's silly fare
I want to share,
The song that's in the air...

Of shiny gears
And metal rears
A symphony debonair...

My ride is bright,
smooth, adroit,
She flows through troughs and crests...

She's cherry red
And velvet felt,
With her, I have no frets...

Her gears are smoothly oiled,
Her clutch is light to heel,
She gallops at the least request,
And moves as in a dream.

The traffic hops and rears about,
There's no reason all around,
But with my car, a manual drive,
Hope for roads abound.

The symphony of tar and tires
The philharmonic joys
Of morning woes and cursing throats,
Abound on every fork.

But the point lies
That when the tide
Rises, falls, or cries...
I listen and learn
And then in turn,
We flow into the miles...

She talks to me,
A whisper, a sigh,
She sings a breathy wheeze...

And with each note
I do respond,
With gentle pressure or release

And she does dance
And so becomes
The mistress of my fate.