Ah, the flames of Tesla, a wild, fiery spree,
Not the revolution, but the brand's final plea.
Every model now sputters, ignites in a blaze,
While owners slap stickers to signal their craze.

“I bought it before Musk lost his mind!” they claim,
“Now this rolling disaster’s a damn shame!”
“Unplug Elon!” one says with disdain,
As Swasticars burn down the road in vain.

The shares plummet down, like a sinking stone,
While Musk grins on Twitter, all on his own.
The sales figures fall, like leaves in the frost,
In a world where his vision is battered and lost.

The electric dream that Musk sold with flair—
Now it’s just smoke in the thick, hot air.
“Elon sucks!” another sticker proudly declares,
As they dodge flames from their Tesla repairs.

The future of transport? It’s nothing but rust,
A shiny facade now caked with disgust.
Once the darling, the symbol of speed,
Now it’s just fodder for mocking greed.

Swasticars on fire, and so is the brand,
A tale of hubris that no one can stand.
Musk’s empire crumbles with each heated tyre,
As owners rebel, and stocks expire.

The dream’s over now, the vision’s all wrong—
Swasticars are nothing but a corporate song.