There are strange things done beneath the sun
By the folks who wheel and roam;
And the trails have told of the Jeeps of old
That somehow still get home.
There are rigs that shine, and rigs that climb,
And rigs held up with spray—
But the strangest sight on a wheeling night
Was the rust on an old TJ.
Now this TJ came from the salty East,
Where the winter roads run white;
Where the brine gets tossed and the frames get lost
To corrosion out of sight.
It had thirty-threes and a winch up front,
And lockers to save the day;
But beneath that pride was a darker side—
The frame of the old TJ.
Well, the owner said, “She’s solid, boys,
Just surface rust, that’s all.”
Then he poked one spot and his screwdriver shot
Right through the frame rail wall.
He stared a while at that rusty pile
As the flakes fell down like hay;
Then he muttered low, “Well, wouldn’t you know—
That’s normal for a TJ.”
He pulled the skid, and the bolts just spun,
And two of the nuts broke free;
There was reddish dust where there once was trust
In American metallurgy.
The control-arm mounts were looking thin,
And the rear frame made him pray;
For the factory steel had surrendered its zeal
On the underside of the TJ.
So out came grinders and needle guns,
And wire wheels by the score;
There was POR and paint and a welder’s restraint,
Then patches—and patches more.
He cut till bright, then welded at night,
While sparks lit the driveway gray;
And the neighbors knew by the orange-blue hue
He was saving another TJ.
“Why bother?” they cried. “Just buy something new!
A JK will do you fine.
Get four doors, a screen, and a smoother machine,
And leave that old wreck behind.”
But he shook his head. “I’d sooner be dead
Than finance my fun away.
It’s got two short doors and Dana Forty-Fours—
I’m keeping my old TJ.”
So he coated the rails and inside the trails
Where the salt and the moisture creep;
He sprayed every seam with a lanolin stream
Till the rust went off to sleep.
He drilled drain holes where the water collects,
And vowed at the end of the day:
“No Eastern brine is taking what’s mine—
Not this particular TJ.”
Then springtime came, and he hit the rocks,
Where the mud ran hub-deep brown;
And the old Jeep flexed while the new rigs vexed
At the ledges that shut them down.
She rattled and squeaked, and occasionally leaked,
But she crawled in the proper way;
And the owner grinned as he locked her in—
“Still nothing beats a TJ.”
Yet rust never dies; it merely hides
In a place you forgot to see.
Behind every bracket it waits in its jacket
Of scale and humidity.
So once every year with a light and a beer,
He crawls underneath to survey;
And taps every rail from the front to the tail
Of his beloved old TJ.
And sometimes there in the garage light,
When the winter wind blows cold,
He thinks of the steel that time can steal
And the Jeeps that never grow old.
For a frame may rot and a bolt may snap,
And a floor pan fade away—
But you cut, you grind, you weld, you swear,
And you wheel it another day.
There are strange things done beneath the sun
By the folks who wheel and roam;
And the salt has slain many Jeeps in vain
Before they could make it home.
But if sparks still fly and the welder’s nearby,
There’s one thing that I will say:
You can bury the rust—
but you’ll never quite kill
the soul of an old TJ.
“The Corrosion of the Old TJ”
Written with ChatGPT (OpenAI), August 21, 2026
With apologies to Robert W. Service for the similarity to The Cremation of Sam McGee
By the folks who wheel and roam;
And the trails have told of the Jeeps of old
That somehow still get home.
There are rigs that shine, and rigs that climb,
And rigs held up with spray—
But the strangest sight on a wheeling night
Was the rust on an old TJ.
Now this TJ came from the salty East,
Where the winter roads run white;
Where the brine gets tossed and the frames get lost
To corrosion out of sight.
It had thirty-threes and a winch up front,
And lockers to save the day;
But beneath that pride was a darker side—
The frame of the old TJ.
Well, the owner said, “She’s solid, boys,
Just surface rust, that’s all.”
Then he poked one spot and his screwdriver shot
Right through the frame rail wall.
He stared a while at that rusty pile
As the flakes fell down like hay;
Then he muttered low, “Well, wouldn’t you know—
That’s normal for a TJ.”
He pulled the skid, and the bolts just spun,
And two of the nuts broke free;
There was reddish dust where there once was trust
In American metallurgy.
The control-arm mounts were looking thin,
And the rear frame made him pray;
For the factory steel had surrendered its zeal
On the underside of the TJ.
So out came grinders and needle guns,
And wire wheels by the score;
There was POR and paint and a welder’s restraint,
Then patches—and patches more.
He cut till bright, then welded at night,
While sparks lit the driveway gray;
And the neighbors knew by the orange-blue hue
He was saving another TJ.
“Why bother?” they cried. “Just buy something new!
A JK will do you fine.
Get four doors, a screen, and a smoother machine,
And leave that old wreck behind.”
But he shook his head. “I’d sooner be dead
Than finance my fun away.
It’s got two short doors and Dana Forty-Fours—
I’m keeping my old TJ.”
So he coated the rails and inside the trails
Where the salt and the moisture creep;
He sprayed every seam with a lanolin stream
Till the rust went off to sleep.
He drilled drain holes where the water collects,
And vowed at the end of the day:
“No Eastern brine is taking what’s mine—
Not this particular TJ.”
Then springtime came, and he hit the rocks,
Where the mud ran hub-deep brown;
And the old Jeep flexed while the new rigs vexed
At the ledges that shut them down.
She rattled and squeaked, and occasionally leaked,
But she crawled in the proper way;
And the owner grinned as he locked her in—
“Still nothing beats a TJ.”
Yet rust never dies; it merely hides
In a place you forgot to see.
Behind every bracket it waits in its jacket
Of scale and humidity.
So once every year with a light and a beer,
He crawls underneath to survey;
And taps every rail from the front to the tail
Of his beloved old TJ.
And sometimes there in the garage light,
When the winter wind blows cold,
He thinks of the steel that time can steal
And the Jeeps that never grow old.
For a frame may rot and a bolt may snap,
And a floor pan fade away—
But you cut, you grind, you weld, you swear,
And you wheel it another day.
There are strange things done beneath the sun
By the folks who wheel and roam;
And the salt has slain many Jeeps in vain
Before they could make it home.
But if sparks still fly and the welder’s nearby,
There’s one thing that I will say:
You can bury the rust—
but you’ll never quite kill
the soul of an old TJ.
“The Corrosion of the Old TJ”
Written with ChatGPT (OpenAI), August 21, 2026
With apologies to Robert W. Service for the similarity to The Cremation of Sam McGee
