A poem for those who have never driven an Aston.

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There are those who think this nameplate is called “Austin Martin.”

There are those who criticize Aston for making endless variations of sports cars with the same basic design. Who can’t tell a DB9 from a DBS from a Rapide from a Vantage from… the Virage.

There are those who don’t understand why you haven’t actually lived until you’ve driven a sports car with twelve cylinders.

There are those who think Perfect Steering doesn’t exist.

Sadly, those are those who have never driven an Aston Martin. I’ve been swooned by Ferraris, enchanted by Lamborghinis, beguiled by Bugattis, and coddled by a Bentley or two. But every time I drive an Aston Martin, I remember what it’s like to be swept off my feet.

And what the hell am I doing in the trunk?

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