Red Barchetta

My Uncle has a country place that no one knows about,
He said it used to be farm before the Motor Law,
On Sundays I'd elude the eyes and jump the turbine frieght,
Too far outside the wire where my white-haired Uncle waits.

Jump to the ground as the turbo slows across the borderline,
Run like the wind as excitement shivers up and down my spine,
Down in his barn my Uncle perserved for me an old machine,
For 50 odd years to keep at as new as in his dearest dream.

I strip away the old debris that hides a shinny car,
A brilliant red Barchetta from a better vanished time,
I fire up the willing engine responding with a roar,
Tires spiting gravel I commit my weekly crime.

Wind in my hair...
Shifting and drifting...
Mechanical music...
Adrenaline surge...

Well-weather 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 ahoots towards me two-lanes wide,
I spin around the shrieking tires to run the deadly race,
Go screaming through the valley as another joins the race.

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 gaints stranded at the riverside,
Race back to the farm to dream with my Uncle at the fireside.