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Ode To Formula One. A Poem

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The engines start up with a thunderous roar,

The grid-girl shaking her booty makes you go “Phwoar”!

Then the drivers come out, much shorter than the average man,

they have exotic names like “Fernando”, no “Bobs, Jims or Dans”.

As the lights turn green, and the cars move away at near light-speed,

the sound and vibrations hurt your spleen, and the smell in the air must be unhealthy, something your lungs don’t need.

Weaving their way through the corners like a stabbed rat in a maze,

watching them fly past makes you dizzy, but you could watch them all day.

Then the winner is announced by the waving of a checkered flag.

It’s probably not the driver you wanted to win,

You lost your money and missed your dinner.

But you loved your day out so much, you kissed the track. And you’ll be back, you’ll be back!

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