You know, pmiller's anti poetry statements have reminded me of some of the
poems of the past few years. Here's two from our own Leisure Suit Terry.
I've been thinking of asking Terry to collaborate on a roadster song. Sung
to the Tune of "Mamma's Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys", titled
"Guys Don't Let your Fairladies Turn in to AutoXers"
WINTER
Boxes on the hood
Jack stands in a cold garage
Waiting for a part
SPRING
Soft rain falls on me
No top, many miles from home
Soggy seat, wet pants
SUMMER
Top down and blue skies
Bright sun and wind in your hair
Roadsters at their best
FALL
Autumn leaves drift down
Warm feet, cold nose, coat and hat
Back home before dark
Sonnet 311
Oh, roadster mine, so powerful, so swift,
I love to hear your engine sing its song.
While Others chide, "Of senses you're berift.",
I choose you for my trips, both short and long.
You stop, you go, you back, you turn with ease,
Those Others never understand our fun,
And when I stow your top to catch the breeze,
They watch with envy as we greet the sun.
You age with grace, a feast for classic eye.
Your simple, rugged heart beats strong and true.
While parts for you are sometimes very high,
to have you sitting, broken, leaves me blue.
And if that day arrives when we must part,
a bit of you will stay within my heart.
Leisure Suit Terry
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