Hot Rod Poetry

[MercuryMac]

That is an option ,Bob, but it's a long one, so I wasn't looking forward to all of that work.

Hard Lunch

You'll need more managment, more skill, 'n more luck
If you're gonna' eat your lunch, while drivin' in a truck.
You're going down the road, without a dinner break,
Now you've got to eat and drive, so you, concentrate.
Called multi-tasking, this eating and drivin', two at a time.
To be successful, your skills at each must be sublime.
Surely, you'll roll your truck in the ditch and be a sorry dude
If you move, while lookin' down at that box that's got your food.
Both eyes should point to the front, one hand has to steer,
The other hand is for the stick, to sometimes change a gear.
So, occasion'lly, you can eat with one hand, and you're blind,
This makes it hard to open your kit, and guess what you find
Your sandwiches are clung in Saran-wrap to keep them nice. --
If you have trouble unwrapping things, times that maybe thrice,
'Cause you're workin' blind, bouncing, with one lonely hand,
Removin' Saran Wrap takes more time than you had planned.
The sandwich is a mess, the lettuce is stuck to neither slice,
Pieces of bread are out of kilter, the ham's on the seat.
To drive and fix this up, you're just goin' to hav'ta' peek.
While holding this remade thing and thinkin' ahead,
You've got to rewrap the rest, or let'm dry out instead.
Supper's a way off, and old sandwiches are gross at best,
So, you'll want the remaining bread, 'cellophane dressed'.
Factor in, one hand, blinkered while driving in your truck,
Wrappin' mushed up food with mushed up Wrap'll surely suck.
A good trucker has a big Thermos for quenchin' his thirst,
I guess I should have mentioned pourin' a cup of coffee first,
Cause, it's real hard to take the Thermos cap off, set it up,
unscrew the cork with your teeth, and pour into that cup'
When you've got a sandwich problem in your hand to overcome.
I know you've got extra steering hand fingers, and a thumb,
but between drivin' and pourin', your mind's spread too thin,
So, deep in your sandwich is where your thumb has been.
Your sandwich's digressing into bread with and open slash,
and mayonnaise with red stuff is dripping down the dash.
Kiss that morsel good-bye and maybe unwrap another one,
Oh, take a swig of coffee first, before the next sandwich fun.

That's all for today, that's half of it.

 

[MercuryMac]

When you're ready to wolf down your food or at least to try
An ad comes over the radio that's many decibels too high.
Your hand involuntarily streaks up to make that noise stop
the forgotten sandwich'll stick to the ceiling, n' then drop
and bounce off the gearshift, smearing it with yukky goo
only to land butter-side-down, right on your gas pedal shoe.
You try for a drink again, 'cause your luck is not holdin' up
and your cooling coffee is bouncing on the dash in the cup.
Now one hand is free,--- the upside of finishing your drink
So you throw the used Saran Wrap out, -- it's gone you think
But the wind caught the plastic and Boy the disgust you felt,
when you watched it wrap around the exhaust pipe 'n' melt.
Shaking your head in grief, you let some choice words fly,
Until a little can of chocolate pudding catches your eye.
You snatch it up and hold it in your left index and thumb,
while steering with your left pinky, though that sound kinda' dumb,
This frees up your right index to pull up that wee tin loop
that will rip off the lid, exposing the brown coloured goop.
About half the time, the loop will just break off the tin,
Leaving you, a sealed can and the pudding still within.
You may not get desert now, the luck you're havin' today,
Try to slip that loop off your finger, while cursing away.
And plan how you're going to get that damn lid off now.
Luckily, you've brought a steel spoon with ya, that's how.
You'll stab down around the lid and pry it up, exposin' goo.
But, if you have to steer in mid thrust, --the spoon'll hit you,
The good of a steel spoon goes south, when aim is 'lacked',
Your hand may be bleeding some before you get tin contact,
and wouldn't you know it, you've hit the centre of the lid
forcing it straight down in the can and you wished you'da' hid
'cause chocolate pudding was sprayed all over the place,
on the windows, ceiling, your shirt, your hair and your face.
All you have to do now, that lunch is so -- over at last,
Is, with your bleedin' hand, roll down your chocolaty glass
and chuck out the empty pudding tin while looking grim.
Lunch, is over now O.K., Let that be a lesson to you, Slim.

 

[bob w]

You did it Mac! The frustrations of life in a truck, You captured the emotions well.

 

[bob w]

The Legacy "T"

In this era of automotive perfection.
My old hot rod would suffer rejection.

Even my old pals would say.
"Why the heck did you build it that way?"

Sit down and I'll tell you how it came to be.
And why I built this old timey "T".

You see I grew up without a Dad.
Never knew him, I wasn't sad.

My Grandpa was the man in my life.
Helped me through the trials and strife.

He worked in a factory, came home tired to the bone.
Spoke of a time he'd have time of his own.

Spoke of the time when he was a teen.
Drove to the Dry Lakes, just to make the scene.

The "T" and "A" roadsters were doing the high speed mile.
A trip he talked about, always made him smile.

Said some day when he could retire.
He'd build a "T" roadster that would light his fire.

We'd work in the garage most every night.
Fixing some guy's car, making it right.

We needed the money, that's for sure.
He had a bad cough, doctors were looking for a cure.

I walked into the room wanting to see him.
The doctor and nurse were very grim.

I knew then my Grandpa was no more.
He had left for that distant shore.

On the table beside his bed.
Was an envelope addressed to me, Ted.

A letter, some money, drawings of a "T".
And a little pouch, in it was a key.

In the letter Grandpa said, "I love you Ted."
"Behind the garage there's that old shed."

"In it you will find all the pieces of my dream"
"The drawings will guide you, see what I mean?"

"All my life I've want this car."
"Build it for us Son, I'll be watching from afar."

 

[bob w]

A Comedy of Components

It was a bright, sunny day in the month of May.
We were out for a thrill so we went to Windy Hill.

It was a junkyard holding many past dreams.
Been there a hundred years, or so it seems.

Once, acres and acres of vintage tin.
To crush it would be a sin.

The Doc told Ed he was mortally sick.
So he sold the yard to his son Rick.

Rick turned the old stuff into instant cash.
In came the crushers with a bang and a crash.

Said selling late model parts would be a big hit.
Didn't want to deal with that rusty old sh*t.

They hacked and they slashed their way through the yard.
We feared that nothing at all would be spared.

But over that hill, in that hidden tree grove.
Was some forgotten old iron, a real treasure trove.

Rick took a look and said without blushing.
"Ain't much there, ain't even worth crushing."

So Pat, Jon and I.
Looked each other in the eye.

Not a word was said.
But our faces showed dread.

What if Rick changed his mind?
Vintage tin lost to mankind.

We must save what we can.
Before he screws up our plan.

Through every pile we went.
Until we were exhausted and spent.

What a big pile we made.
Now Rick would have to be paid.

(I said)"You're crushing for 20 dollars a ton.
Let us have this pile for a hun.

Finally he said "okay.
Load your crap and go away."

In my collection I had.
A Hupmobile cowl that was real bad.

Some Chevy coupe quarters from 1930.
They were rusty and bent, and very dirty.

I looked at these parts and the gears started turning.
A roadster, in my mind, for that I was yearning.

Hup cowl and Chevy quarters, is that a good start?
Will it look cool or lay a big fart?

I started on it the very next day.
And over some months really made some hay.

Here's my roadster made from Windy Hill tin.
Is it a loser or is it a win?

 

[bob w]

Wow! Over 24,000 views. Nobody is commenting. No critics anyway.

So here goes again

Poor Old Jim

Everyone felt sorry for poor old Jim.
There was no one around poorer than him.

He lived in an old tumble down shack.
Down by the rutted ox cart track.

A hundred years ago 49ers would pan for riches.
In the nearby streams and the muddy ditches.

No one knew where Jim came from.
He was very quiet, but he wasn't dumb.

Said his Great Grandaddy staked this claim.
That is why to this area he finally came.

Years and years of very bad luck.
Left poor old Jim without a buck.

One day Jim simply appeared.
In his worn out coveralls and scruffy red beard.

Turns out after living there for a spell.
The local hot rodders found out he was handy as Heck.

If there was something they couldn't fix.
They'd bring it to Jim, he knew all the tricks.

He would never take cash from a dude.
Instead he would ask him to bring him some food.

Then one warm, starry night.
Jim and the guys were sitting by campfire light.

And Jim started talking about his life.
How he lost his kids and how he lost his wife.

As teenager living in L.A.
He needed a job, needed the pay.

So he got a job in a musty speed shop.
And started dating a pretty car hop.

Quit school and began building hot rods.
The customers loved them, what were the odds?

In a short while he was making lots of money.
Married the car hop, she was his honey.

A year later cute little twins came along.
Everything going good, he could sing a song.

To famous rich people his roadsters were selling.
How long could this go on, there was no telling.

In all the big shows his cars won awards.
The judges gushed over his roadster Fords.

Then one day a big movie star.
Came to his house to buy his latest car.

He looked everything over and said, for sure.
I'll take the roadster and I'll also take her.

His wife left him taking the twins away too.
And moved into a mansion in seaside Malibu.

Jim took to living in his hot rod shop.
Couldn't get over losing his beautiful car hop.

Sorry to say Jim took to drinking.
Late one night when he wasn't quite thinking.

When his mind was in an alcohol haze.
Somehow he managed to set the place ablaze.

Jim found himself out on the street.
No family, no business. nothing to eat.

As a homeless man he fared no better.
Until he discovered the old mine claim letter.

That's the story Jim told as he started to rise.
Come along boys I have one more surprise.

He led them to the mine and opened the door.
To their amazement sitting on the floor.

Was a beautiful trophy seven feet tall.
The most coveted trophy of them all.

A golden roadster sat proudly on its crest.
Was proof that Jim's roadster was one of the best.

If you look on the plate below the car.
You can read the engraving, it said : Jim's Roadster, A.M.B.R.

 

[lazarat]

These are great! Bob, I had to log in to see the scrapyard rescue, so here I am.

Merc mac, the lunch truck stories are hilarious! been there done that.

I have two stories I was going to write, going to see if I can poeticize.

 

[bob w]

lazarat,

Just write them. Doesn't have to rhyme. The cat and the rat story you just posted was entertaining. Keep it up.

Anybody else?

Interesting fact: I posted the last offering at 7:00 last night. There were 116 views between then and 9:30 this morning. Most poets get 4 relatives and a homeless guy looking for a cracker at a reading. So, pretty good interest here.

 

[bob w]

Never Say Never

The brilliant sun sliced through the tall pines.
On the water it created golden lines.
That caused shimmering dances as wind moved the branches.

In the shallows a mama Loon swam in circles.
Because a Muskie had taken one of her feet.

On her back her child no bigger than a fist.
Riding precariously, careful not to bend or twist.

Below, a turtle older than history.
Waiting, waiting, waiting.
For it to slip off its mother's back.

A young life gone.
The old turtle lives on.

Through the forest one could hear.
A faint rumbling, it was coming near.

The rumbling became a roar.
Afraid, little ducklings swam for shore.

In a while the noise had passed.
And primal quiet returned at last.

The hot rod raised a dusty cloud.
That hid the lane in a hazy shroud.

It looked like the old man was out for fun.
In reality, he was on the run.

Big Government has made a decree.
Now he and his roadster would give in or flee.

The old man was the last of his breed.
The rest stamped out by political greed.

Would-be experts and government fools.
Decided to outlaw fossil fuels.

The panic was over global warming.
All of you hot rodders let this be a warning.

Your fancy cars have no place.
If you drive them you are a disgrace.

All because, you can see.
The world's going to end, it went up half a degree.

The Big Wigs recanted in a hurry.
You car guys are safe, there's no reason to worry.

We didn't mean it and to prove we are honest.
A nationwide car show we will hold come this August.

August came, everyone drove to a show.
What they met there was a big blow.

Met by the Military, the armed troops rushed
Line up here, your cars will be crushed.

Many a grown man fell down and cried.
For this was the day that hot rodding died.

After your car is crushed, come and see us.
Each of you will be given a new Prius.

The old man and a few other hicks.
Were overlooked because they lived in the sticks.

But the Authorities were on his trail.
With space age devices, they would not fail.

Then a satellite way up in the sky.
Spotted the dust cloud from the old guy.

They sent a drone that had the means,
To blow the roadster to smithereens.

The old man never made it home that day.
His molecules just sort of drifted away.


Wow! almost 1,300 views in the last week. Thank you.

 

[lazarat]

I sometimes wonder when the above will be true.
even in weather where you are turning blue
I think a lot about what you wrote,
Think AOC, make a note.

But from warming to change is what they now say
Anything, any word, to make us pay.
But take it from Milanovich, a wise sage
The natural cycle, is the next ice age.

It will happen, and happen fast,
this 20,000 year warming never lasts,
so heed what I say, and take stock,
look below at samples of Vostok.

Some day and maybe soon,
this so called 'end" will make many a loon.
Especially the loudest with homes by the sea,
I thought it was rising! We shall see.

So if you should live very long,
and your hot rod is still strong,
if its still loud and looking neat,
make sure you keep the cabin with heat!

Some may say I am a denier,
many will call me a liar
but follow the science is what they yell
I did! Thats why I tell them to go to....

 

[bob w]

Thanks a million, lazarat. Heck of a good piece. Well done. Bravo![cl

I'm running out of ideas so we some other folks to jump on board.[S

 

[MercuryMac]

Thanks Laz.
Thanks Bob, cause your poems have given me ideas.

 

[MercuryMac]

I have some questions for you guys. Here's my poem.
Hotrod Dilemma

I’ve read Charley Ryan’s poem so many times
It’s food for thought, with good beat and some rhymes.
The story says, it drove this guy’s Daddy to drinkin’
‘Cause Sonny powered his Ford with a big old Lincoln.
MY hotrod plan falls apart, I’m here to say,
‘Cause I don’t know the right engine for my Model A.
I’ve got a Merc flattie, that would be era correct,
It just needs rings, ‘cause it runs, last time I checked.
I’ve got two, three twelve Y-blocks from late ’56,
They’re pretty rough, so it’ll take a heck of a fix.
I’ve got a rebuilt, three fifty, sittin’ in a shed,
But that’s a Chev and I’d rather hang myself instead.
You guys might think I’m just pushin’ my luck,
But I’ve got an old Hemi out of a Fargo truck.
A friend ran away from here, a while back,
She left me her car, a running Cadillac.
But, you guys will advise me, without blinkin’
Go with that stout three seventeen Lincoln.
Remember this, Guys, I’m here to say.
I’m the guy who’s building this Model A.
Lot’s of questions to guess at, man alive,
I even have some transmissions with overdrive.
It’s all in the hotrod, dream stage, so far,
It would be cool to mimic Charley Ryan’s car.

 

[bob w]

Heck of a good poem and story, Mac.[cl Thank you for that. And, you build that "Hot rod Lincoln".

Over 1,200 views on this thread in only 5 days. Folks must be reading them.

 

[lazarat]

Pizza Delivery Stories


So it was 1979, In Florida, around Lent
I was ready to leave, no money for rent

I was heading back north to my hometown of Philly
It was not long that I saw that as silly

I went to the pizza joint for one last slice,
Found out they need a driver, extra cash is nice.

So I took the job, at the time of Spring Break,
In Fort Lauderdale, no idea the cash I could make!

So on a Thursday night, I gave it a shot,
with my strong running short GMC, why not.

But it did well I might add, its a '71
a 292 6, 3:73 posi, quick and fun

I made 60 bucks! On a night that was slow!
So I tried the Friday, little did I know,

That the cash I was making, 100 bucks that night
Changed my mind on my idea of flight

So! I had this town street system down pat,
I kept the wheels rolling, this way and that

Right on red, left where I could,
I zigged zagged throughout every neighborhood.

So impressed with my skill, and quickness to boot,
The pizza owner made sure I got all the loot

I was getting 25 an hour, mostly beach run,
my rent now paid, plus all the fun.

I was meeting all types, from students to boozers
mafiosa types, as well as drug users,

Some tips I would get, contraband for pay,
I would sell to my co drivers and make their day

Sometimes a bridge would delay my trip
but nobody complained, I still got the tip

The same with a long train, the gates barely up,
I would floor the truck, time for giddyup!

One time the door opened, a gal wrapped in a towel
She took the pie, was she hot? and how!

I got back to the shop, a little late
The owner says why did you make me wait?

I said I got a tip I could not resist
I tried, but the customer did insist.

Really, what happened, what have you made?
Nothing..not cash...but I did get L...

He laughed so hard, he was not mad,
here take these pies, (more "tips" to be had)

One time a Cutlass with no more arrow to be seen
I was coming to the light when I got the green,

He sped across me, I hit quarter and tailight
the driver continued with his hurried flight

The GMC spun slightly, dinners landing on the gas,
The truck was screaming as I kicked them off fast,

When settled, I looked for the car that was hit,
He took off! Now I was angry as spit.

The truck had a heavy push bumper, now with tiny scrape,
but the dinners looked like they were handled by an ape

To the nearby shop, with the lasangna containers,
we repaired the damage, and got delivered, no complainers

Then there was the road rage incident, on the way back from a run,
A creep kept toying with me and at the light it turned fun.

He opened the passenger door, no mistake could be worse
I already had the truck in reverse.

I floored it, the door scraped him back,
but my jacket with cash I now did lack.

He ran to his car, my jacket in hand,
giggling like a girly man.

I dove through the driver window, as he got it in gear
With my hand on jacket, out the window was my rear.

He sped weaving down the street as his nose met my elbow,
how many times I hit him I will never know

It was a wild ride that is for sure,
a sight to behold with my butt over the door,

But effective was I, he hit the curb with a stop
its a good thing this wasnt seen by a cop

I got my jacket, to my truck at the light
Got back with blood covered elbow from the fight.

Thinking back at those times, a whole year this was,
so much fun, dangerous, never hassled by the fuzz.

what my loyal GMC had been through was quite rough,
but the cash I made to fix it was plenty enough.

So rebuild I did, with a 327, suspension, and gears,
It was my daily driver for the next 20 years

It is still on the road, to a neighbor I did sell
I am sure it will no longer go through that hell.

So many more stories I can tell, all true,
But for now I enjoyed telling, hope you liked too!
.
.
After Pizza:
.
.

 

[bob w]

Thank you for that glimpse into your exciting past, lazarat. You are a rhyming Raja.

Almost 2,000 views in a week.

Sure to be more with you and Mac contributing.

I'm waiting for inspiration. Nothing happening.

Multiple friends have died in the last few weeks from complications following Covid. Not feeling very poetic. Except grim poetry. Nobody wants to read that.

 

[Burgerman]

Enjoyed your poems, Laz, Mac. Sorry for your losses Bob.

 

[lazarat]

Thank you for that glimpse into your exciting past, lazarat. You are a rhyming Raja.

Almost 2,000 views in a week.

Sure to be more with you and Mac contributing.

I'm waiting for inspiration. Nothing happening.

Multiple friends have died in the last few weeks from complications following Covid. Not feeling very poetic. Except grim poetry. Nobody wants to read that.

Bob, sorry to hear about your losses. I can understand, take a break.

 

[05snopro440]

Thank you for that glimpse into your exciting past, lazarat. You are a rhyming Raja.

Almost 2,000 views in a week.

Sure to be more with you and Mac contributing.

I'm waiting for inspiration. Nothing happening.

Multiple friends have died in the last few weeks from complications following Covid. Not feeling very poetic. Except grim poetry. Nobody wants to read that.

Sorry for your losses. Take care

 

[MercuryMac]

The Auction sale

V’ you ever been to an auction with some of the boys?
And walked around gawkin’ at all the really neat toys
You inspected and critiqued and bragged a wee bit too.
Ah, the cool stuff there, your wants just grew n grew

You’re lickin’ your lips like a fish fed cat, grinin’ at life
Cause you’d already forgotten the promise to your wife.
To not buy anything but a hamburger and maybe a pop
From the ladies who’d set up store inside of the shop

Adrenalin was pumping and you even started to sweat
Your wants were growing stronger, n it was early yet
The auctioneer hadn’t started cajoling to the crowd
And you were cranked right up, to buy yourself proud.

The sale got underway and the junk wagons were first
Pushy people got in ahead, so you fum’d and you curs’d
Cause some things you’d seen before and held so dear
Were goin’ to the close guys cause you’re not that near

The unmatched chairs, the lamps n the chest of drawers
Reminded you, the wife’s tastes wer diff’rent than yours
Then a niggling old reprimand like a fuzzy little hunch
Was telling you Don’t buy too much or skip eatin’ lunch

The dark cloud of unfocused repression soon went away
Cause the socket sets ‘n’ jack-alls were comin’ into play
And wrenches, and screwdrivers all lined up in a board
There’s hammers, axes, ‘n’ a skil-saw only missing a cord.

mad then ‘cause you couldn’t catch the floor mans eye.
You elbowd your way thru the crowd so you too CUD buy
And the auctioneer yell’d NOPE, but continued his spiel
Then He threw sum empty picture frames in on the deal

Frustration HAD mountED but the frames reminded you
That you’re not to buy anything, ther’s bills that’re due
You’d elbowed your way to the front for a BETTER look
And it seem’D that your interest, the auctioneer mistook

‘CAUSE a chicken plucker, THAT NO WAY HAD YOU planned
SEEMED TO BE YOURS N you hadn’t even raised your hand.
Then you’d remembered that niggling feeling of dread
But some big old lady, raised you ten and bot it instead

The junk wagons got done and all the stuff was sold
And they moved to the machines, to bid serious gold.
The first up was two plows that were well up in years
lichens now covered the molboards and the shares

There’d been some stuff next that hadn’t cot your eye
But the bidd’n had been wild and the prices quite high.
Then came a swather that was wide, shiny and green
You’d lost all focus but the auctioneer and the machine.

He’d started pretty high, then counted down, real slow
Fifteen grand, twelve-five, give me ten and we’ll all go
You’d started it all off at ten by waving your silly hand
The bidding had taken off, your next was sixteen grand

At twenty two five they were again bending your ear
Even your eyes were sweatin’ then that niggling fear
So while the auctioneer begged you to nod it came back
You couldn’t buy, the bank account wasn’t in the black.

You’d hyper-wondered how to avoid a reputation smear
Best you fake death now, fall right down and disappear.
You’d hop’d madly the auctioneer didn’t mistake this fall
For another bid from ya or you’d be a carcass after all.

You’d apologized to some and said you’d gone into a skid
But there wasn’t much mud, some thot you’d avoided a bid
Bedraggled and sheepish you reappeared on the fringe
Your pride was beat a bit but you’d avoided a buying binge

The big ticket items came and somehow you got through
Without moving, hands in pockets stuck there with glue.
You headed on over to get your hamburger n pop now
And heard the big tractor was sold for a hundred thou

The crowd was thinnin’, but your friends hung around
And stated you could’ve bid again, even from the ground
They also mentioned that plucker you’d dang near had
So much hilarity was heaped on you, you cudn’t feel bad.

So finally you joined their fun ‘n’ shook off that cloud
Because you bought nothing, but you bid yourself proud
Have you ever been to one of those auction sales boys
When ya got way too caught up in all that auction noise?