Hot Rod Poetry

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You two guys are golden. Thanks heaps. Not to play favorites, but I really like your first one 23crate.

Four old boys having lunch in the cafe.
Talkin' about what we did back in the day.

Not a single story we haven't heard before.
We don't remember, so it's not a bore.

Hot Rod buddies, looks like we're doing fine.
But there's a certain sadness knowing we're reaching the end of the line.

Yes, it's hot rods of which we are fond.
It is our common bond.

Across from me sits Doc.
He lives his life by the clock.

A minute early or a minute late.
He acts like it will seal his fate.

Been living such a rigid routine.
Since he was an early teen.

Controlled his life like it was a timed run.
Did he really have much fun?

Habit can be the best of servants.
Too much will be the worst of masters.

On my left Wally slouches.
Bags under his eyes look like pouches.

Starts our lunch with a medical update.
Joking which malady will seal his fate.

Wally has everything there is.
Except maybe for the rhumatiz.

Heart and blood and back and stroke.
Nothing can bring down this tough old bloke.

Wally is the ultimate survivor.
That's why he's still a dragster driver.

Bubba rocks back in his chair.
Looking good despite loss of hair.

Likes to think he's a lady's man.
Wife keeps a short leash so he never ran.

Dawn to dusk you can hear the tools churning.
Bubba in his shop satisfying his yearning.

Building hot rods is his consuming passion.
Each one unique, after a fashion.

He likes to tell the boys.
I win if I die with the most toys.

Me? I look at the night sky.
I ponder. I wonder. Why?

The vastness of space.
The violence and beauty of the place.

My insignificance is overwhelming.
On this I must quit dwelling.

The more I know.
The smaller I grow.

A speck that will be lost in time.
Sitting here making up a rhyme.

Four old boys having our weekly lunch.
Did we have fun? Sure, We had a bunch.

And we still are.
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Three Old Guys

Three old guys sitting at the bar.
Talking about who has the best car.

Been doing this for many years.
Over countless hamburgers and beers.

I don't want to be a boaster.
There's nothing finer than my Deuce Roadster.

The magic year was 1932.
That's when hot rodding really grew.

That hearty flathead V-Eight.
Made the Fords really great.

With performance and a beautiful look.
'32's are the most popular, in my book.

I had my sweetheart for fifty years.
Now I'm crying big fat tears.

Because she's gone.
Sold it for a song.

Pressure from the new little honey.
Said we needed the money.

She spent it all on new clothes
Then moved to Paris, I got the hose.

A pile of debt she left for me.
Not even a pot in which to pee.

That's why I'm sitting here.
Drinking the cheapest beer.

Your roadster was very nice I will say.
But my T-Bucket still has its day.

The first hot rod anyone did see.
was a Henry Ford Model T.

Tommy and Norm and Kookie and Isky.
Drove them when it was quite risky.

Fenderless hot rods racing on the street.
Cops didn't think that was too neat.

Yes, the T-Bucket has stood the test of time.
There's none any cooler than mine.

Not to be bragging but I'll let you guys know.
My T-Bucket just took Best of Show.

Both your hot rods are cool I'd say.
But nothing will hold a candle to my Model A.

Every day for thirty years.
I've poured in my money, sweat and tears.

To make it flawless, an example of what I can achieve.
If you have faith, If you believe.

Now I'm questioning my endeavor.
To build the best hot rod ever.

There's another ingredient, if you will.
Got to have the ability, the skill.

Twenty times I've painted the thing.
Each time I find...a ding.

Maybe all these years I've been a little crazy.
Now at 87 I'm getting somewhat hazy.

Never had a hot rod to drive.
Aiming for perfection, that's for what I did strive.

Reality bites hard I now realize.
I'll never achieve that vaunted prize.

I know now my joy is sitting here.
With my friends having a hamburger and a beer.
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Two Old Geezers

Two old geezers sitting on the porch.
Discussing who will carry the torch.

For decades a passion they did share
Wondering now if future generations would care.

Sorry, but I can't see.
Who will carry my legacy.

My son was interested when he was young.
We built a roadster together, then he was done.

He got married and sold the T.
Cuz she wears the pants in the family.

When the grandkids were young they loved their grandpop.
They would come over and help in the shop.

After a bit they would hop in the rumble seat.
And off we'd cruise to get an ice cream treat.

When they got older their interest did waver.
They'd come over and act like it was a favor.

The ice cream cruises were no longer a lure.
I'd lost them to video games, that was for sure.

For so long now I've waited for the day.
That one of them would come over and say.

Grandpa I love the car with the rumble seat.
And the wonderful rides to get an ice cream treat.

Those memories for me are unforgettable.
And I think it would be regrettable.

If your hot rod went to a person unknown.
Yes grandpa, I would like to make it my own.
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One Old Dude

One old dude lying in a hospital bed
Wondering if this is what it is like to be dead.

Opened my good eye and stared at the ceiling.
Oh my gosh, I believe I am healing!

Buxom doctor walks in, high heels clicking on the floor.
He says, a few more days and you'll be walking out the door.

You should have been more careful with that electrical wire.
Now you can sing soprano in the Vienna Boys Choir.

Yes Doc, I'm accident prone.
911 is speed dial on my cellular phone.

Seems the older I get.
The more I forget.

Like that time I was so dumb.
Got too close to the fan, lost half of my thumb.

I poured gas down the carb without care.
Burned off most of my hair.

Bought a jack and stands from Harbor Freight.
That almost sealed my fate.

The jack, she slipped.
And the stands they flipped.

That one caused me some harm.
But I've learned to work with my prosthetic arm.

I really love my hot rod hobby.
But lately I spend too much time in the ER lobby.

Will I keep building? Do I dare?
Sure, why not? I've got Medicare!

Thus ends my Trilogy Plus One.
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pets are so cool dam and blast
sadly they just dont seem to last
our little kitty who at twenty one
today will be her last day of sun

she is so alive, mobile but blind
she long left her kittenhood behind
elderly love like an old gramma
her poor kidneys arthritis and ticker

the drugs we give to help her along
still work because they are strong
but they dont seem keep up to well
cycles of three day highs and lows

so goodbye old friend
dam and blast
Thanks you guys, i was a long hard day ...

heres a little poem my own Ma found
hijacked it is , not one of my own
but the words within resonated a sound...


  • 371822615_1258046328281473_4103456843816871223_n.jpg
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(this one is kinda grim)

I look at my hand, it's wrinkled and 90 years old.
I used to be young and brash and bold.

Now these old bones shiver when it's the least bit cold.
When it's hot and humid I feel like I'm gonna fold.

The backs of my hands have bulging blue highways.
The crisscross scars are the bloody byways.

A little bump and I'm black and blue.
A new bruise with a purple hue.

My old skin is stretched and thin.
Hardly can keep my insides in.

All those years in the searing sun.
Now I'm paying for that youthful fun.

Doctor looks, many spots he sees.
Uses nitrogen to make the spots freeze.

I don't know what keeps me going.
A high fiber diet, I guess you're knowing.

Here's what can be said about my mental state.
I'm always a dollar short and a day late.

I clearly remember 1959.
But last week, where did I dine?

Look at my wretched condition.
My kids have started a petition.

To put me away, out of their hair.
Out of sight, no family to care.

A place where antiseptic fills the air.
To blunt the smells that reside in there.

Maybe I've become a bit senile.
After all, I've been on the planet for quite a while.

Back off family, cut me some slack.
You should be helping, You should have my back.

Now I hear whispering about selling my cars.
You'll not get my roadster, have to put me behind bars.

Thought my kids would be compassionate and kind.
Not strip me bare, leave me in a bind.

You're breaking an old man's heart, it's not funny.
Sad to see you all lust for the money.

I have no more strength to fight, what's the use?
But you all didn't know where I hid my Deuce.

My roadster and me, you haven't found us yet.
There's many miles between us as I drive into the sunset.
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My last one was kinda grim. This one is grimmer.
I hesitated to post it because it isn't about cars. Anyway, here goes:

I can't remember my memories.
Do I have that dreadful disease?

Can't remember who I was.
My head is filled with static and fuzz.

I do remember being hearty and hale.
Now my mind is an unforgiving jail.

In my soul a creeping foreboding.
My brain in dumping, rapidly unloading.

Pretty soon it will all be gone.
My favorite hot rod, my favorite song.

All those people staring at me.
Wonder who they all could be?

They smile, their eyes filled with sorrow.
Will I even have a tomorrow?

And if I do, will I really be there?
Pity on their faces, they really do care.

A familiar face? I look, I stare.
She looks at me wondering if I'm in there.

A glistening tear in the corner of her eye.
Is there enough left of me to let me cry?
50,000 views for this poetry thread on a rat rod site. Who would have thought?

Thank you to everyone who took the time to read some of the entries.

A special thanks to all the contributors.
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