Hot Rod Poetry

[bob w]

Whee! Here we go again...

Twenty Three Times

The twenty third time.
It almost seems a crime.

He took the axle out.
And turned round about.

To see if there was a detection.
Of an imperfection.
In the chrome's reflection.

It must be better than the best
To pass his arduous test.

For our man was on a quest.
To build a hot rod that would shame all the rest.

The fourteenth paint job turned out great.
But to him it wasn't straight.

Thought he saw behind the gloss.
That the subtle lines were lost.

And the highlights weren't quite right.
In certain kinds of light.

Parallel lines did not collimate.
On him these things did grate.

His piercing eyes could see.
Flaws that ceased to be.

He started on this odyssey.
When he was only twenty three.

Now seventy three the skills were waning.
Nothing more to be gaining.

Spent his whole life on this obsession.
To one and all let this be a lesson.

This man's hot rod will never be done.
Perfection was his Master, and Perfection won.

[MercuryMac]

WOW, Bob.
Kinda' makes ya think.
WOW.

[MercuryMac]

I'd been running a cat all summer holidays and there was money burning a hole in my pocket. Not far from my employers place, where I'd picked up my cheque, sat a 1956 Ford two door, for sale.

A Pink Car
My car was pink, when I was a lad,
The colour of salmon and that was bad.
It had a white roof and some of the trim,
But I rattle canned it black just on a whim.
The generous seller threw in a gift,
An automatic, so, no need to shift.
I had to get used to not shifting the gears
Strange as it sounds, that was one of my fears.
The Y-block V-8 that was up in the front,
Had all kinds of revs and plenty of grunt.
It was a high miler, by the look and the feel,
But it did well with young me at the wheel.
That salmon colour’d car sure taught me a lot,
I learned about me and the thrills that I sought.
I learned about girls, but not quite enough
There’s some good times, and some other stuff.
One winter my heater died so I changed it out,
Put a six volt motor in and it howled, no doubt.
My girl went home cold, so I fumed and cursed,
I learned the motor had the polarity reversed.
No matter how fast you turn a squirrel cage fan,
Backwards doesn’t blow air like a real heater can.
I learned quickly that the rear axle can shear,
‘Cause that pink car didn’t have a nine inch rear.
I made a floor shift, bent the lever just so,
But couldn’t get an appropriate throw.
A whole lot of wisdom was gained, I think,
Because I grew up in a car that was pink.

[bob w]

Good one Mac. I can relate. Your poem creates images in my mind of the "good old days".

[smallfoot]

I'm pretty sure I know the color you refer to Mac. We used to call it "Pepto Bismol"

[Torchie]

Originally Posted by smallfoot

I'm pretty sure I know the color you refer to Mac. We used to call it "Pepto Bismol"

Yep!!!
Torchie

[MercuryMac]

I'm pretty sure it wasn't called salmon pink, but I don't know the name. There was a coral pink on the Crown Victoria's that was very nice.
I also have a '57 Monarch that is salmon pink and black.

[lazarat]

Good one MercMac

I too remember those color combos, those Canadian FoMos though...wow!

[lazarat]

So I thought i would put this one to music...The theme from Beverly Hillbillies...

(feel free to sing along....if no one watching....)

Lemme tell a story about the tranny from hell,
I think I mentioned here on the forum I did tell
one day getting off the highway smoke and slipping and a noise
I looked under the car and saw there were no more joys...

Oil that is, red gold....Dexron 4...

So next thing ya know to the tranny shop I go
They seemed to know thier stuff but little did I know
that they misplaced flexplate washers so they didn't use a one
a year later that put an end to all the fun...

Rattling... a bolt laying in my driveway....one bolt holding it on...

So I crawl under the car and replaced the washers on the bolts,
no more rattling, the trans seemed good with its shift kit jolts
then a few months later the rattling starts some more,
its getting worse so I look and I see cracks galore...

Above my pay grade...no lift....no help...

This time I take it to a recommended shop,
What the tech found made all our eyes pop...
He found the original washers laying in the cavity of the converter..
It was all I could do to keep from committing murder....

Local Remco, Gave me a great deal, manager owns a classic...

So next time I have a job that I cant repair,
to the Remco guy I go, instead of pulling out my hair
They do everything except tires and aligns...
Its good to have a classic car guy giving peace of minds....

<---insert Scruggs and Flatts bluegrass here-->

Photo below...arrows pointing to cracks and elongated mounting holes.

[bob w]

lazarat, now I can't get the Beverly Hillbillies theme song out of my head. Fun poem though. Don't stop now.

Mac, your offering stimulated a fair amount of discussion. Good work.