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Motorbike Scrambling.
The thrum of engines
Lying in wait,
Jostle against
The starting gate.
And then, oh boy
The two stroke joy
As lions roar
From throttle's core.
Pristine engines
Shine the course,
With delicious note
Of petrol sent.
All huddle and muddle
At first breached hill,
Guilty excitement
Of that first spill.
Up and round, and down
They go
Like brightly tumbled waves
they flow.
With grit filled eyes
And muddy faces,
They sweep and swerve
To gain their places.
Excitement mounts
With every gear,
Pulsing engines
Drown the ear.
With flag now waved
The race is done,
Spectators chase
To see who's won.
