They warned me
it was a death trap.
They told me
it would be my demise.
That Little *******
That beautiful,
yet powerful,
sleek, silver Spyder.
It was so ****
The rev of the engine.
The way it purred
as we sped along.
If only we were more
than just a glare along the highway.
The sun bouncing brilliantly
off the hood.
We would have won
so many races.
We were so fast.
Cruising down 466.
We would have been great,
the two of us:
‘The Little *******
and James Dean.’
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 11:53 AM UTC
They warned me
it was a death trap.
They told me
it would be my demise.
That Little *******
That beautiful,
yet powerful,
sleek, silver Spyder.
It was so ****
The rev of the engine.
The way it purred
as we sped along.
If only we were more
than just a glare along the highway.
The sun bouncing brilliantly
off the hood.
We would have won
so many races.
We were so fast.
Cruising down 466.
We would have been great,
the two of us:
‘The Little *******
and James Dean.’
A poem about my all time favorite actor, James Dean, and his car that killed him, that he had named Little *******
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