Hot Rod Poetry

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One of these days.

One of these days I will write a poem,
retired, I stay close to the home
Sometimes I'm here on the computer screen
sometimes I get up and do a house clean

with cats and hardwood there is lots of hair
so once a day I sweep my lair
but wait, whats that outside I see
is a ratty chevy from year 53

a 210 2 door sedan with V8
was never a car that was thought of as great
but now has the hot rod look of old school,
and many that see it think its cool

So I go out to car and tinker and mess
a lot of work, I must confess
while driving it makes noise plus a rumble
the souped 305 is not so humble

Not too fast, but fast enough
a great little cruiser, a little rough
shake rattle groan and squeak,
with a heart of gold, but not for the meek

so I take it to car shows, gets lots of attention
not many of these around I forgot to mention
I also take it to the local bar
Its a good thing from there I dont drive it too far

So not much now with house, cats and hair,
with those I still give some time and care
but the Chevy gets me to tinker and roam,
therefore no time to be writing this poem.
That's really good, lazarat. Thank you for posting.
I wish we were going to Florida this winter so we could get together. Would like to see smallfoot too. And that guy in Orlando.
That's really good, lazarat. Thank you for posting.
I wish we were going to Florida this winter so we could get together. Would like to see smallfoot too. And that guy in Orlando.

Thanks and yea, lots going on in the cooler weather here, hope you make it.
A Coupe's Tale

Here I sit all forgotten.
My tires and top are completely rotten.

I was very popular in my day.
Now I'm covered with straw and hay.

I'm a 3 window coupe not a chicken coop.
Even though I'm bespeckled with chicken poop.

Farmer backed a plow into my door.
You should see what rat pee did to my floor.

My seats were of fine grey mohair.
Have been turned into a mouse's lair.

Countless baby meeses.
Have nibbled it to pieces.

I'm deathly afraid of wiggly snakes.
A family of rattlers is wrapped round my brakes.

Used to have a lot of class.
Now there's bullet holes in my glass.

I'd get out of here if I was able.
Guess I'm stuck forever in this stable.

The young feller that did all the work.
Sold me to an idiot, a bonified jerk.

I was so pretty in green metalflake.
At the local drive-in I'd take the cake.

All the girls would gather around.
To listen to my mellow flathead sound.

Oh what joy we had, that boy and me!
'Til he went off to some foreign sea.

The new boy, he was so rich.
But he didn't have that Hot Rod itch.

He drove me so hard that I would boil.
Didn't even know how to check the oil.

I learned to hate that nasty boy.
To him I was just a meaningless toy.

To be used, abused and thrown away.
That's how I ended up in this pile of hay.

One day we were going way too fast.
I knew my engine wasn't going to last.

The oil gauge was mighty low.
Any minute my motor could blow.

He stuck it in second, I revved to the moon.
The connecting rods would come out soon.

I slowed down and rounded a curve.
I slid in my own oil and began to swerve.

A ditch, a fence, a big old tree.
Is this my fate? Woe is me!

I jumped the ditch, under the fence I flew.
But the gnarly oak tree would break me in two.

Up on two wheels I did a pirouette.
I'm sure Nasty Boy's shorts were good and wet.

Out of the door the rich boy fell.
Rolled over a rock and into a well.

He came out of that well mad as a wet hen.
I knew it was curtains for me right there and then.

That was the story of what happened that night.
And why I find myself in this dismal plight.

At daybreak the rooster does crow.
Through the opening barn door the sun's rays do show.

In limps a greybeard with a patch on one eye.
He digs through the hay, is he starting to cry?

He sees me, I know him, I know he knows me.
There's a smile with the tears, he's filled with glee.

The handy young boy from 50 years yore.
Has found me, will save me, I'll shine once more.
And we'll be together for ever...more...
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The Sory of Dirty Dan

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.
Here's one from 25 years ago:


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.
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.
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!
and there it was...

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

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