A wicked road winds across lawless lands
West of the Pecos.
Where Texas turns to hell; a lone GTO
Scourges smug asphalt with a big block
Renegade ethos.

She’s runnin’ low on gas,
She’s been runnin’ way too fast--
And she’s burnin’ rich--

But that’s good.

Because in that combustive concoction,
Is reflected the nuts and bolts,
Ball peens, and crescent wrenches
Of a provocative, evocative, tool chest lending to
Precision tuned angst riddled verse.

She’s a flat black bad-*** *****,
An epic among American cars--
A ‘69 Judge--the 400 cubic inch
Ram-Air rhythms riffing redline stuff
From bookstores to bars.

I work a service station on this
Lonely road, in this inferno west of the Pecos.
In the distance, I hear a distinct sound,
The Judge’s 400 big block, roaring with that
Bruisin’ outlaw ethos.

Down this wicked road of the accepted norm
This Judge is soundin’ mighty good,
I know to have the coffee ready,
As I listen to the poetry chanting under the hood.