The Red Beast

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  • Humor

    The Red Beast

    Fall in love with her at first sight,
    the color, flaming red so bright,
    red as a ripen apple, the blinding light
    of the summer sun.

    She sat there with all her splendor,
    the sexiest thing for a vendor
    to own; displaying all her galore,
    one could only sigh profoundly.

    Opened her, went inside her sanctum but nicely,
    cockpit I sat in like an egret, proud but gently,
    held her like a falcon’s claw, so tightly,
    she is forever my darling.

    Touched her ebony leathery board softly.
    ran my fingers on her smoothly,
    and focused my sight slightly,
    at her dials as if an eagle’s eye.

    Reached for her switch, inserted the dagger,
    she screamed as if a strumpet, gold digger,
    the red beast kicked with anger,
    roared as if a lioness in the early dawn.

    I stepped on her before I ask her name,
    hot as a cooked potato, she played her game,
    as always she had me blame,
    for her 415 hp engine, $175K worth.

    Equipped with 3.6 liter, 6 speed manual transmission,
    in finale she gave her name and mission,
    improved aerodynamics, she belongs to her class division,
    911 Porsche GT3, 5 star rated.

    We go along hand in hand with fond,
    an expensive prosti rode in silence we bond,
    and together we honed,
    the skills we need in the Daytona race.

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    PRober commented on The Red Beast

    08-05-2009

    very nice ride and a very good write! Write on and enjoy that need for speed!

    orsonav commented on The Red Beast

    03-14-2009

    This poem requires your attention. I had to follow it slowly to make sure I caught all of the humor. Great write.

    bandit1192 commented on The Red Beast

    03-14-2009

    Well written. Apon my second read, I saw a completely different picture. (Forget about my first view.)Sounds like a woderful ride.(much better than my mini van.) TS

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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