By Bob Fisher

Sixteen plugs, big fuel pump, radical roller cam --

Racin' motor from injector right down to the pan.


Cylinder head's big ole ports, that’s the way it's gotta be

When you're runnin' nitro through that motor in a class called double-A FC.


There's only one sound like it -- a fuel motor in the lights

And header fire over the roof lightin' up the night.


They call them Funny Cars but there ain't nothin' funny I can see

When you're racin' for a quarter mile with speeds reachin' three-thirty.


The drivers of these racecars that we call Funny Cars

Make the drivin' part look easier than I'm sure it is by far.

When the yellow on the tree turns to green and you gotta go

You step on the throttle, hope it goes straight and pray that it don't blow.


Now you're in a race car pullin' four G's or more

And a car just like the one you're drivin' is right outside your door


But this is why they do it, it's motorhead's rush for sure

But I still don't see nothin' funny and it looks like there ain't no cure.

Got a poem you'd like to submit? Email it to We'll read it and if we like it, we will publish it. Remember the title to the department is "No Rhyme, No Reason, No Pay," so don't expect any and we won't either. -- Jeff Burk

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No Rhyme Nor Reason — 8/29/04

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