JOKING ASIDE NOW LETS BE SERIOUS.
The light turns green, the dirt starts to fly,
A speedway rider with a gleam in his eye.
He’s got no brakes and a frame made of grit,
Just a heavy steel shoe and a "don't care" bit.
He slides through the corner at a forty-degree bend,
Praying the fence isn't his newest best friend.
The bike’s screaming loud, the crowd’s in a daze,
While he’s lost in a thick, methanol-scented haze.
He finishes the heat, all covered in muck,
And says to his mechanic, "Well, that was some luck!
I didn't hit anyone, I stayed on the track,
Now help me find where I left my lower back."