Prototype - Red Barchetta

rate me

My uncle has a country place,

that no one knows about

He says it used to be a farm,

before the Motor Law

On Sundays I elude the Eyes,

And hop the turbine freight

To far outside the Wire,

where my white-haired uncle waits

Jump to the ground

As the turbo slows to cross the borderline

Run like the wind,

As excitement shivers up and down my spine

Down in his barn

My uncle preserved for me, an old machine -

For fifty-odd years

To keep it as new has been his dearest dream

I strip away the old debris, that hides the shining car

A brilliant red Barchetta, from a better, vanished time

Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar

Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime ...

Wind in my hair -

Shifting and drifting -

Mechanical music -

Adrenaline surge -

Well-weathered leather

Hot metal and oil

The scented country air

Sunlight on chrome

The blur of the landscape

Every nerve aware

Suddenly, ahead of me, across the mountainside

A gleaming alloy air-car shoots toward me,

two lanes wide

I spin around with shrieking tires,

to run the deadly race

Go screaming through the valley as another

joins the chase

Drive like the wind

Straining the limits of machine and man

Laughing out loud

With fear and hope, I've got a desperate plan

At the one-lane bridge

I leave the giants stranded

At the riverside

Race back to the farm

To dream with my uncle

At the fireside ...

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