Retooling

It was a fine day for motoring
And yes we had driven the course
So many times as to make it uninteresting,
And yes there was a dark forest in the center
Of what we’re now calling the ring
And it was completely unexplored.
But I do love the smell of exhaust so
And the hide goggles and the scarf flitting about
In the slipstream which also dragged
Various buds and daft gadabouts and parasols
Behind our little black roadster like a twister.
Shake me a martini, darling, there you go,
My hand moves from the pew-colored
Wood wheel to receive it – there you go, I
Say in honor of such a fine day.
And into fifth gear and coming out
Of the hairpin into third, my favorite gear,
And a bit of heel-and-toeing as that dark
Thatch comes into full view over the crescent
And eh gods! rubble on the tarmac.
We flat out the drive tire, and we’ve got to pit.
Martini on the crotch is not sporting, I say.
And the priest we’ve hired to change
Tires agrees, saying every time we face
That dark hub – he calls it – we piss ourselves
And end up kneeling in front of him
With his wrenches and bloody rags.