Jerry was a race car driver And he drove so *******ed fast He never did win no checkered flag But he never did come in last Jerry was a race car driver Hed say el solo number one With a bocephus sticker On his 442 hed light em up Just for fun Captain pierce was a fireman Richmond engine #3 Ill be a wealthy man when I get A dime for all the things that Man taught to me Captain pierce was a strong man Strong as any man alive It stuck in his craw that they Made him retire at the age of 65 Jerry was a race car driver 22 years old Had too many cold beers one night And wrapped himself around a telephone pole.
The "rap" "Hot Rod Lincoln" written by Charlie Ryan http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hot_Rod_Lincoln I'd call it a poem put to music since it's recited rather than "sung". My pappy said "Son your gonna drive me to drinkin' If you don't stop driving that Hot Rod Lincoln" Have you heard the story of the hot rod race Where the Fords and the Lincolns were setting the pace? That story is true I'm here to say Cause I was driving that model A. It's got A Lincoln motor and its really souped up And that model A body makes it look like a pup It's got eight cylinders, uses them all Got overdrive, It just won't stall With four barrel carbs, and A dual exhaust With four:eleven gears you can really get lost. Got safety tubes, but I ain't scared The breaks are good, the tires fair We pulled out of San Pedro late one night With the moon and the stars were shining bright We was driving up on g****vine Hill P***ing cars like they was standing still All of a sudden, in the wink of an eye A Cadillac sedan p***ed us by I said "Boys, that's a mark for me" By then the tail lights was all you could see Now the fellas all rid me for being behind So I thought I'd make that Lincoln unwind Took my foot of the gas and man alive I shoved it on down into over drive Well I wound it up to 110 My speedometer said that I'd hit top end My foot was glued like lead to the floor That's all there is, there ain't no more Now the boys all thought that I'd lost my sense Them telephone poles were like a picket fence They said "Slow down, I see spots!" The lines on the road just looked like dots We took a corner, side swiped a truck And I crossed my fingers just for luck My fenders was clicking the guard rail post The guy beside me was white as a ghost Smoke was coming from out of the back When I started to gain on that Cadillac I knew I could catch him, I thought I could p*** But don't you know by then we'd be low on gas I had flames coming from out of the side You could feel the tension, man what a ride I said "Look out boys, I've got a license to fly" And that Caddy pulled over and let us by All of the sudden she started knocking Down in the dips she started rocking I looked in the mirror. Red lights were blinking The cops was after my Hot Rod Lincoln Well they arrested me and they put me in jail Called my pappy to throw my bail And he said "Son, you're going to drive me to drinkin' If you don't stop driving that Hot Rod Lincoln"
Maybe not racing but... He was big as a Buick when he drove his automobile of love through her carwash of desire. No idea where it comes from.
along the lines of drJ's post I would add "stroker Ace" by the charlie daniels band. Stroker Ace was born to race He had a mean streak ten feet wide A son of a gun with a taste for fun And more than his share of pride Take a dirt road curve with the Devil's nerve And make a car dance across the mud Haulin' shine was his regular line 'Til the track got in his blood He was a real hot shot and he bragged a lot But man, that fool could drive Cause he loved the feel of a steering wheel and the girls with the bedroom eyes And in a racing tight or a bar room fight Old Stroker stole the show A back street blazer and a real hell raiser and a racetrack Romeo Mama lock your daughters up that wild bunch is back in town And them little girls get frisky when they hear that racecar sound They bringin out the yellow flag, somebody's brakes have failed There's an oilslick on the inside and a wreck along the rail You better stand on it, Stroker, cause a bandit's on your tail. It's a downright joy for a country boy When he hears them engines moan But you gotta hang tough and it gets real rough When you're out there on your own Cause they'll push you around, they'll knock you down When you're up there against the wall And you always know when an engine blows That a man can't win 'em all You could push that car just a little too far any Sunday afternoon And if you break your neck in some damn fool's wreck they'd forget about you soon But old Stroker Ace was born to race and it's worth all the trying Just to drink champagne in the Victory Lane and to hear that concrete whine Stroker get your dander up this ain't no time to lag You've got to make a lap up if you want to take that checkered flag Number ten is closin' in to even up the score It's time to wave bye-bye and put the pedal on the floor You better stand on it Stroker cause you're blowin' off their doors. Spoken: Blow their doors off, Stroker. Stand on it, Son. Ah, you good lookin' devil, you.
The Racer's Prayer Lord, I pray as I race today, Keep me safe along the way. Not only me, but others too, As they perform the jobs they do. I know, God, that in a race, I, the driver, must set the pace. But in this race of life I pray, Help me Lord, along the way. Although I know I am a sinner, Help me to believe that with God, You're always a winner.
this has been posted on the hamb before.... .... [html ]<EMBED src=http://www.youtube.com/v/WXU3N9wT3u0&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&feature=player_embedded&fs=1 width=425 height=344 type=application/x-shockwave-flash allowfullscreen="true"></EMBED>[/html]
Written by Howrad over on V8buick.com: It was ten oclock at night and I wuz sittin in my chiz-air Watchin thunderbolt and lightfoot, what else is there? Peeped the chase scene, “Damn that boattails tight!” But I must’ve seen the scene thirty times just that night The kids were asleep and so was the wife Turned off the television thinkin “this is my life?” Thought about my Buick, hell, I cant afford to start it Broke as hell, bored as well, I went to the can and farted Opened up the latest hot rod mag to tide me over Nothing but camaros a ranchero and two novas! Threw the H.R. in the trash, started thinking ‘bout crashin’ Right up out the blue yo my cell phone started flashin’ Picked it up, “sorry Tony, cant do anything tonight” He said “I’m on your street, twenty feet to the right” “Remember that guy Brian with the chevy at the bar? He said his old impala could uh… “blow away your car”? I remembered meeting Brian. He’d challenged me to race I think I might have said “Anytime. Anyplace.” I said “man, I’m sorry, I…” but tony cut me off “He says if you don’t race him you’re as gay as H***lehoff.” My mind was made up, as I got up off the throne “You tell him 30 seconds”, and I hung up the phone I was thinkin “am I crazy?” ‘cuz my car’s not all that fast “Hell yeah I am!” I thought, as I didn’t wipe my *** Threw on my boots and my lucky Buick shirt My lucky hat too. I mean hell, it couldn’t hurt Grabbed the keys hella quiet so the wifey wasn’t privy I snuck out the back door and I headed for the Rivi Tony met me in the driveway, saw the imp down the street T’was a donk! And jacked-up to the roof, I thought “sweet!” Tony told me if I needed any gas that he would buy it I said SHHHH! She’s asleep man we gotta be quiet Couldn’t start the 430 cuz my flowmasters rock Had to roll it out the drive and four houses down the block Damn! but a 68 Rivi is heavy! At 5 mph, we rolled up to the chebby I heard Brian laughin, makin fun of us rollin I told him “You don’t know? Man, this Buick is stolen! “By the way, your purple paint job is really nifty” Listened to the idle, it was only a 350! That a ‘Lark? Bow-tie said. I replied to him “Wrong!” My doors are way too long just like cheech and chongs bong. Got an acre of hood, this car is 18 by 8 So large I had to register the thing in two states In fact it’s so damn big that I don’t think the front seat would Fit in a same year Cadillac Fleetwood But that didn’t matter, it’s Buick power I was packing Under the hood, right where the chebby was lacking Started up and cursed my Buicks premium thirst Before eating an impala she needed gasoline first Put twenty in the tank and I got some refreshments Ice-cold selections from refrigerated sections The dude behind the counter said “uhhh… ’69 gran prix?” I lied “olds omega. circa ‘73.” Rolled out the gas station, with both tires spinnin’ Both of us grinnin’ knowin’ what was beginnin’ Cruised to the last light heading out of town Took a look around, no cops to be found Windows were down exhaust was shakin the ground ‘Nother clown in bow-tie about to go down My arm hung out the side, we were blarin heavy metal I had one hand on the wheel and both feet on the pedals Light was still red but bowtie launched, what an *** As it turned my tires burned and I was ‘Goin’ fast with cl***’ Grinning, tires spinning, I p***ed him still in first His chebby moving worse than a he**** in reverse My quadrajet was flowin all 800 cfm By the time I went to second I was gone with the wind At 100 miles an hour he was eight lengths back My riv was still strong like a gorilla on crack When we hit 130, the donk had disappeared Just a tiny glow of neon in my rear view mirror While the car pulled us harder than a kick in the pants I thought about my ten degrees initial advance All those nights in the garage full of rust and blood and sweat All those wasted days at work, hunting parts on the net Putting in my carpet with a dull pair of scissors Reading that damn timing thread by Larry the wizard I’d built my car myself while I’d learned from the best Spent a lot of time and money. Was it worth it? Hell yes! Eased off the gas, I slowed down to 111 (I got the top-end because my posi’s 3.07) The race was really over way before it had started Brian, though retarded, had more balls than his car did We turned toward the bar, where every race finishes To collect on our bet, a couple pints of Guinnesses Tony grinning ear-to-ear asked me “what you high on Howard? I told him wasn’t nothing but beer… and “Buick Power!” <!-- / message --><!-- sig -->
Here's one I wrote. . .Please be kind. . .forthcoming (fingers crossed) and published in 2009. . . The Racer<O</OSquinting eyes against sunset glow over aged dash you are dark, gold, and taunt enough to thread the needle in between semi-traffic the desert glare lighting you up in my mind. You slouch battered orchestrated denim engineer boots and cautiously selected "conshirt," wrapped in black armour eyeing waitresses, thinking you're being sly. Girls eye you as if you are the last piece of devil's food cake, knowing your body is hard and salty from the road -- They watch the clutch of your pen thinking of open highways They know you are ready to take them to bed and move all over their own bodies shifting from low to overdrive screeching hands on wheel through yellow lights. I watch you talk with you listen to you and when I dare touch you, knowing for an instant about this raw power but I was born with feet planted terra firma sense of dancer's balance and I drive alone. Racing your black on black on black roadster would surely thrill me one moment and surely kill me the next. I would scream with pleasure in that first rush down a tandem night blacktop then in an instant smash into an embankment or twist metal around already bitter bones shattering my skeleton. Yes, I liked shifting you, around in my twisted brain, and surely desired you more than you could have ever desired me But I am smart enough to know -- I am no drag racer that you could never love a driver cruisin' slow-n-low in an Edsel stuck in 3rd gear comfortable on city streets who slows for yellow lights who's odometer has flipped driven too many miles alone. I am here alone in a solitude house listening to cars race down midnight alleys thinking of this driven world how I like hanging arm out of driver's window thinking, not touching other drivers, knowing the pain of too many transmission failures. Loving you, compact, black-gold, with all your other girls, for your natural self -- confident powerful midnight American bravado.
Not a poem but a car related parody on a famous song that I wrote.( the lyrics not the song!!!) A Dylan car song might go something like this.... (tune Like a Rolling Stone) Apologies to Robert Zimmerman. At the drags I get holeshot .....................off the liiiiiiine Nuthin I can do can help my.................sixty tiiiiiiimes People'd call, say "you gonna need a spool" To get some traction, you're a fool? You used laughing gas alot Till your pistons was hangin' out Now you just squawk real loud Now you just leave a cloud And are having to scrounge your next rear. I needs some gears! I need some gears! To be able to grip. To make the quarter trip. Not be a dip.
I once knew a guy on the hamb, he lived on weiners and spam, spent his cash on his rod, and his dog named todd, but was happy cause man his car ran! this was my first try at a hot rod poem.
Not a racing poem, but the best poem ever with a car in it: William Carlos Williams "To Elsie" from Spring and all (1923) The pure products of America go crazy-- mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves old names and promiscuity between devil-may-care men who have taken to railroading out of sheer lust of adventure-- and young slatterns, bathed in filth from Monday to Saturday to be tricked out that night with gauds from imaginations which have no peasant traditions to give them character but flutter and flaunt sheer rags-suc***bing without emotion save numbed terror under some hedge of choke-cherry or viburnum- which they cannot express-- Unless it be that marriage perhaps with a dash of Indian blood will throw up a girl so desolate so hemmed round with disease or murder that she'll be rescued by an agent-- reared by the state and sent out at fifteen to work in some hard-pressed house in the suburbs-- some doctor's family, some Elsie-- voluptuous water expressing with broken brain the truth about us-- her great ungainly hips and flopping breasts addressed to cheap jewelry and rich young men with fine eyes as if the earth under our feet were an excrement of some sky and we degraded prisoners destined to hunger until we eat filth while the imagination strains after deer going by fields of goldenrod in the stifling heat of September Somehow it seems to destroy us It is only in isolate flecks that something is given off No one to witness and adjust, no one to drive the car
Not exactly about racing, or cars, but about traveling; From, "Song of the Open Road" Afoot and light-hearted, I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good fortune - I myself am good fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Strong and content, I take to the open road. - Walt Whitman, 1900
The Jalopy Journal
