But Fictionpress tends to fuck the formatting up. THis is what it's SUPPOSED to look like:
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There’s a car in my town,
Lying in my father’s old garage.
Restored yet never driven.
Fueled, yet never started in 15 years.
The words “Challenger R/T” are proudly stamped on its trunk,
(or, as my British peers would say, its boot)
In pure metal, an eternal testament to its pedigree.
Dad says it’s a 1970, peaking the dyno at 335 BHP,
Back when he lived at the strip.
(That little power from a 6.28L V8?!)
But to him, power didn’t matter back then,
All that mattered was just having fun,
Trying to get your shifts right for the quarter-mile.
That was all he needed in a car,
And it sure gave him plenty of those moments.
Other people look at it like it’s a dinosaur,
A relic of when people foolishly luster for power,
To the exclusion of sense.
But I see a treasure, from when restrictions didn’t matter,
When it was just a good-old competition for the biggest power,
As engineers came up with more and more ways,
Of squeezing out that last HP out at the factory,
Or as owners tried to squeeze that last .1 second out at this strip,
To establish themselves as the fastest among their friends.
Sure, muscle cars were loud.
They were terrible at corners.
The word “safety” was an oxymoron to them.
But they were the domain of thrill-seekers,
Of people who didn’t care at all if they crashed,
All they wanted as fun, thrills, and to live life,
Not merely meandering down the road of living.
All of the above flashes through my mind,
As I board this memorial of a forgotten time.
The tough leather bucket seat sveltely cushions my body,
Yet remains firm, its maroon color somewhat nostalgic to me,
Even though I was born after this time.
The smell of leather fills my nose;
It’s almost as if I can see the tanner,
As he spends hours at his craft,
Getting the texture, smell, and look just right.
The wooden steering wheel is perfectly polished,
Allowing a quick swing for a smoky powerslide,
Yet letting me keep a firm grip.
Nothing but three spokes and a horn
(No airbags here)
Lie between it.
I smile to myself as I turn the key in,
And the air is filled with a sound unlike anything on the earth;
8 cylinder crashing up and down;
The transmission whirring to life,
And hundred of small explosions per minute,
As the engine’s thousands of moving parts work together to create a symphony.
Every part is a player in this grand orchestra of metal-against-metal,
Conducted by my foot as I playfully pump the throttle,
Hearing the engine pick up the pace into a frantic arpeggio,
Before settling down into a smooth diminuendo.
Some say that it’s ugly, that the sound of an engine is brutal,
And too un-civilized for modern day people.
I smirk and hit the gas.
Fuck ‘em.
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Topic: [MILK] There were 12 eggs here what did you do with them? (Happy thread?!) (Read 16198383 times)