Hot Rod Poetry

[bob w]

Thank you my faithful readers.

[bob w]

This is the story of Dirty Dan.
Of him, I am certainly no fan.

1959, A sunny Saturday in May.
Out at Twin City Drag Strip, just to play.

Teenagers letting off adolescent steam.
Listening to the racing engines scream.

Leo and I were hoping to keep pace.
With my Ford Coupe, the flathead was full race.

That flathead was used to drinking 50 weight oil.
Cuz on a dirt track for two years it did toil.

It was bored and stroked, ported and relieved.
Number six cylinder had to be sleeved.

The valves were opened by an Isky stick.
And the three Strombergs were really slick.

A Merc crank was welded and ground.
Sure made that mill roar and pound.

The finned cast iron heads were really rare.
I was lucky to have found a pristine pair.

No helmet, no seat belts, this was old school.
I don't think we even brought along a tool.

This was our first time with the drag racing crowd.
Hoped that the Coupe would make us proud.

We made a run to get used to the track.
The flathead sure barked when I gave it a whack.

Down the strip the Ford did roar.
But the time slip would tell us what was the score.

It felt pretty good, it felt pretty fast.
The time slip said we were fastest in class.

We walked the pits to see who we'd be racing.
Over by our Coupe there was a guy that was pacing.

We headed over there and I yelled, "Hey!"
Startled, he looked up and quickly walked away.

The announcer said my class would be next.
Now we'd find out who would be best.

One last check before our race.
On top of my engine, sand all over the place.

I looked down the carbs, there was sand in there too.
I knew it was sabotage, into a rage I flew.

That guy that was here and hurried away.
Was the SOB that ruined my day,

He opened his door and got into his Merc.
And on his face was a telling smirk.

Well, Dirty Dan won the race that day.
I never found a way to make him pay.

In all my many years I've met many a man,
But none were as rotten as Dirty Dan.

[bob w]

Here's one from 25 years ago:

BIG BLOCK

The kids always called me a motorhead.
When I was real little I used to take everything apart.
In high school I worked at Stan's 66.
Pumping gas.
Then later doing oil changes and fixing flats.
After a while Stan let me help.
Replace transmissions and clutches.
And other stuff.

In 1965, when I was a Senior.
I bought my first car.
A 1951 Chevy. Six. Stick.
Within a few months the car was rad.
With skirts, lowering blocks.
Three one barrel carbs and a split manifold.
With dual Hollywood glasspacks.
Man, that thing would rap down a hill.

Couple years went by.
I was saving for my dream car.
A 1967 Chevelle SS 396.
Three hundred seventy five ponies.
Under the hood.
Waiting to eat up all the Roadrunners.
And Torinos in town.
Four on the floor.
It would lay rubber in every gear.

I had $1,800 saved.
When Uncle Sam called.
Said that Ho Chi Minh was trespassing.
And a few thousand of us young bucks.
Full of **** and vinegar.
Should go over there for a few months.
To discourage the Cong.
From hiking through Laos.
And sneaking into South Viet Nam.
Picking on the farmers and other nice folks.

In boot camp I told the Sergeant.
That I was good with engines.
And I would like to maybe work on equipment.
He said because I was small.
I was more valuable in the field
Said something about tunnels.

For months I walked point.
Leading my squad.
Shooting at everything that moved.
Thinking about the black '67 SS 396.
I would buy with my combat pay.
It was the only thing that kept me sane.

Then one day Mr. Claymore.
Met me on the trail.
And I got to leave 'Nam early.

After they patched me up.
I took my savings.
And my combat pay.
And bought my first love.
The guy I got it from.
Kept it in perfect shape.
Never raced it.

Sometimes my friends will come over.
They'll set me behind the wheel.
And start the car.
And I push the gas pedal down.
With a stick.
I hold in my teeth.
The sound that sweetheart makes.
Brings tears to my eyes.

Note: This is purely a work of fiction.

[earthman]

Y'all are getting better and better at this poetry stuff. Thank you for providing this enjoyment.

[lazarat]

Dirty Dan
with his dirty plan,
after all your toil
made my blood boil!

[bob w]

Lazarat is one cool cat.
For me he goes to bat.
Writing a rhyme when he has time.
Up the poetic ladder he will climb.
Living in the Sunshine State.
Is his chosen fate.
The sweet aroma the air carries.
Comes from living among all those strawberries.

[Couper]

Wow! That's talent!

[lazarat]

Originally Posted by bob w

Lazarat is one cool cat.
For me he goes to bat.
Writing a rhyme when he has time.
Up the poetic ladder he will climb.
Living in the Sunshine State.
Is his chosen fate.
The sweet aroma the air carries.
Comes from living among all those strawberries.

The talent you have,
I cannot scoff,
All I can do,
is LMAO!

[bob w]

Originally Posted by lazarat

The talent you have,
I cannot scoff,
All I can do,
is LMAO!

The best one yet!!!

[23crate]

as i sit here home from work,
building my hot rod-a job i shirk
wishing to get the simple job done
perfect outdoor day in the sun

worst of all - crap motivation
has badly captured a nation
working split shifts at my job
hopefully the pay they dont rob

all i want is to build my car
but that dream is way afar
my own will has left the road
dam thing is too hard or im to old

finished it many times in my head
lost my direction for my build thread
brain stuffed full of metal shaping
and still an engine bay left gaping

should i sell what tortures me so
and look for a project easier yes no
or just battle on grim determination
hating the government my crappy nation

God nothing worse than feeling like this
depression is an ass not total bliss
the desire is there gearhead for ever
passion is huge.. give up never