The Drag

By Wild Bill © 1996 All rights reserved.

I'm through, I really mean it. I won't make another run.
This was the last I promise, the sport lost all its fun.

Tryin' to herd this box of bolts down this oily strip,
Has become a sport for younger men, it just ain't worth the trip.

I had high hopes of pullin' and eight point three or less
But felt it go in second gear, broke the crank shaft I would guess.

Last week it was the flywheel, before that it was a pin.
Seems every time we run her, we rebuild again.

We work all night in the pit swattin' bugs drawn to the light.
Leavin' greasy hand prints on our foreheads from the fight.

Then crawlin' in a sleepin' bag, wet from all the dew.
And wakin' in the mornin' just to find that we're not through.

The coffees cold and oily when we climb out of the sack,
But there's no time for wakin' 'cause the bikes up on the rack.

U.P.S. delivers parts at eight o'clock A.M.
But the tree lights up at nine so it's lookin' kinda' grim!

We throw it back together prayin' all the parts will fit.
Then get her to the tree, just as the first lights lit...

I suppose I could make one more run just for old time’s sake.
Perhaps I'll make the finish line and nothin' else will break!

Maybe even qualify so we could even race.
Who knows...It could happen. Why we could even place!

I'll just make one last run, so the sponsors all can brag,
That one summer morning...we were the fastest at the drag.