Hot Rod Poetry

[23crate]

so it dawned on me the other day
a kind of epiphany if you may
near the begining of this threads start
seems i played an interesting part
tis nearly true my imagined tale
my story has shown a vehicle sale
of ole lady studebaker if you will
with odd tyre sizes and rust to fill
haha you say at that dumb Kiwi
its not a coupe or a roadster 'Peewee'
its a funky old fordor with a siezed flat 6
same horsepower likely as a pile of bricks
fear not those watching from afar
theres a 259 coming for this car.
at least it will sound pretty good
and a second dash + a new hood
be excited pictures of crates new build..
while he muses on a car that he willed?

[23crate]

mrs crate emailed me at work
well, it was sometime yesterday
new chickens that had hatched
in our yard. little dudes they
their chicken mum quite proud.
mrs crate watches with glee
the black gray and yellow spotty
kevin the rooster drops by for a look
admiring his 'midgets' not bad for a chook
i think how odd it all seems
for the shells were all pale greens
far smaller than the chicks could fit
they must have burst out
with a ginormous split
so the 'herd' has now grown by five
since one more made it out alive
we are hoping for another
a six pack thats all
increasing the egg supply
daily fresh from the hens,,
hopefully its not six roosters again....

[bob w]

Wow! Mac & Rat, and now Crate all writing. Thank you fellas. I read the newer ones every night. Let the goodness sink in.

This thread will go over 29,000 views today. Pretty darn good for poetry.

[MercuryMac]

From the poet who is 'Crate',
both submissions are great.

[23crate]

twas a few nights before Christmas,
as frequently it was heard .
a small cube V8 silencing birds.

now funny thing happened in a land underneath
not one or two but many more than three
V8's of sizes did come round to see
crates famous decorating BBQ beersies

fellow hot rod club members
none of whom queers, for ​steak
hamburger buns and sausages
ketchup and salads waterslide break

then a ruckus if you please
crate someone yelled from afar
get your missus grab your keys
we'll do skids in your car!

who said that i called
its was actually Dave
who rather drunk it seems
had gotten exceptionally brave

forgetting the nice policeman
that lives right next door
it happened quite slowly
Dave fell to the floor

crisis averted methinks
somewhat relived smiled politely
as i removed all his keys
the friendly cop hates tyre stinks

phew we said at the end of the day
worn out hot and sunburnt
sat under the shady Chrismas tree
we have to do this again new years

so break out the decorations
all of you all tinsel the angel
and a big shiney ball
may you have a good one
filled with Christmas cheer
dont be like dave and have too much beer

for really this poem was really a myth
designed for a little cheeky mirth,
something the world is far too short of
right now on Gods green earth

merry Christmas all

[lazarat]

Great stuff, Mac and Crate,
and here is one I hope is great:

*** Reading the poem by Crate about chickens,
made me put down the Carol by Dickens

Up the street in this little rural town,
with its smaller house lots, the chickens abound

One guy and his fam have a coop that is great,
would make proud even a guy named Crate

No roosters but many different hens
colors abound many breeds in their pens

speaking of pens, how do they get out,
The hens, goats and pigs, who roam about

The roosters in the early morning make me wake,
I am glad they are not next door, for God's sake!

This town is like a show on TV
called Green Acres, no Gabor named Evy.

But Douglas, Haney, Kimball, and Eb are here
with rods and old cars and offers of beer.

So here I stay, in my shaky old shack,
Forget the big city, I'll never go back.
.
.

[smallfoot]

Dang you guys are good!

[soltz]

^^^^^^^^^^
WHS

[bob w]

Christmas 2071

T'was the night before Christmas and all through the flat.
Not a creature was stirring, not even the pet rat.

In his cold room in his footie pj's
The old man slept, dreaming of happier days.

Racing his bike on the Isle of Man.
Going 200, just as fast as he can.

In the year 2020 he had to quit.
The Government said stop, that was it.

The Covid19 moved in, it scared the whole nation.
The masks, the shots, the social isolation.

Now fifty years later, Covid 219 was the scourge.
Why get out of bed, he had no urge.

No place to go, no money to spend.
Life was miserable, was this the end?

Up on the rooftop he heard a whirring noise.
Was it Santa with a sack full of toys?

Out the window he saw Santa stop with a jolt.
His sleigh was pulled by a Prius, a Tesla and a Volt.

The old guy didn't know what he'd do with a toy.
But in his heart he was still a young boy.

Santa came down the stairs, knocked on the door.
Said I'm here, in spite of Al Gore.

Fear not my friend, the world will not end.
In fact, my elves tell me it's on the mend.

For you, good fellow, I have this gift.
Put on these goggles and you can shape shift.

You can return to happy days of yore.
And ride your Ducati like you did before.

The Isle of Man is waiting for you son.
Twist that throttle and have some fun.

Carve through those corners, fly through the air.
Let it all out, do not have a care.

Race all day, and when day is done.
You can ride off into the setting sun.

Technology has improved the Santa profession.
Virtual Reality is now an obsession.

For many years I knew you were hurtin'
I wanted this gift for you, that was for certain.

Merry Christmas to you and all the old boys.
Who can now return to their youth and again play with their toys.

[lazarat]

Great Bob, inspiration back with a clout!