Make Mine Mike

Name That Fluid. Bodily? No, you should just quit
Thinking so naughtily: blood, jism or spit...
You expected that, probably. C'mon, gotta admit.
But I meant my old car -- shoddily made piece o' shit.

Wobbly, it drove. Lemon made in the U.S.
With parts from Yemen -- they'd likely confess:
They wanted to demonstrate against our excess
And make us drive Gremlin crates. But I digress.

Condemned state? Yes. Yup. Busted-up grill,
Which fell off abruptly whether moving or still.
Parked, I put a cup underneath; it would fill
With something. Ew, yuck! What was that swill?

Uphill it went quick -- oh, I mean the sewage.
The car? Gears would stick every span or a cubit.
The engine was sick. Liquid went right thru it.
Which kind? Well, there, Slick. Let's play Name That Fluid.

Blue, it trickled down; that's for the wipers.
Oil: Puddle of brown. Damn car needed diapers.
Tranny leaked red around. And green is a type of
Vulcan blood. Or I found the coolant went hyper.

Like it wound up with the Clap, the car would just drip.
So I always went strapped with plenty to sip.
Just as you take a map on any long trip,
I kept fluids on tap. I was Pep Boys-equipped.

But crap! Zipping north to the town of Burbank,
Pouring southward the quarts and pints from my tank,
Didn't matter the source, who knows what it drank.
The engine was hoarse; the dashboard -- it stank.

'Course, thank God I didn't die, when black smoke did sink
Inside and I creeped by a rich SUV dink.
"Dude, your car's on fire," said the schmuck with a wink.
I coughed, glared, perspired, and growled, "Yeah, ya think?!"

Buy a drink I'd do later, once off the turnpike.
Coolant for the radiator, a cool Scotch for Mike.
Or is oil the traitor which has taken a hike?
If he saw it, Ralph Nader would surely yell, "Yikes!"

Cascadin' like Fifty Cent's CD sales are doin',
The liquid's color meant I should easily clue in
What fluid would prevent the next blazing ruin.
Wait -- it's magenta. Shit. That's a new one.