Sixteen plugs, big fuel pump, radical roller
Racin' motor from injector right down to the
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
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
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 email@example.com.
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