The World According To Ben Part 24 ..Ben Romances About The Legendary Small Block Chevy
“Small Block Day”
(Ginsbergian Stanzas plus a Rhyming Couplet in celebration of what many consider the greatest automobile engine of all time)
So bright the dawn this Small Block Day! We celebrate an engine great: Three/Twenty-Seven! Chevrolet’s Pure stroke of genius. No debate! It blew many a fool away Who stupidly tried to compete On road course, oval, drag-o-way Or late night on some small-town street.
The thought of such an engine does Quite warm me up this chilly day. (The air chirps loudly… but no buzz. Too cold. The insects stayed away.) On cue, a junk Chevelle—true scuz— Blasts ’round Mayberry, heading east. In this hick village, there’s no “Fuzz.” And so, Chevelle’s Small Block turns beast!
Tail squats. Front bumper rears up high. Twin cones of flame escape exhaust. So LOUD!!! Now, watch rust bucket fly! The driver’s heedless of the cost Of the new tires he’ll have to buy Because he smoked his rears away. Thick skid marks left by his goodbye Will last forever and a day.
This burnout lasts until the “T” Intersection, where car turns south, Still screaming like an iron banshee. It drowns the words from my own mouth. The sound resounds, shakes every tree, And echoes off the clouds on high. The stratosphere will set it free— It might be heard in old Shanghai.
And… what’s left here? Just rubber scent, Two strips of black, some shaken squirrels, Some human eardrums slightly bent, Small chunks of tire—little black curls. The driver’s off to pay the rent. They like his mullet at the mill. But on the morrow, he’ll present His next resounding Small Block thrill
And some will curse and hold their ears While others polish last night's beers.
© Verse-Case Scenario, LLC 2019
Transparency: I had another poem fully written about an hour ago and was about to post. But somehow, in a truly ham-fisted combination of keyboard missteps, managed to delete it. Totally. Sunk without a trace. It had some of the content of this poem, but was handled more gently and seasonally. What you here read is the second attempt, written in fury at self. I suppose some of that might be evident.