986 Poetry

[dbear61]

Gaily bedight,
A Boxster knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had driven long,
Singing a song,
Top down toward Eldorado.

But he grew cold
This knight so bold
When winter brought its shadow.
Sighed as he found
No spot of ground
Snow-free like Eldorado.

And, as his steed
Of storage had need,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

But Winter’s cold ground
And salt all around
Kept Boxster in a shadow.
Soon Spring revives:
Boxster comes alive
To drive toward Eldorado.

[Johnny Danger]

It's a battle of the "bards" !

[Jager]

To me fair Boxster, you never can be old,
Such seems your beauty, especially in winter’s cold;

As you wait for spring your paint is eyed,
Tis remembrance of summers' driving pride;

Ah, Nine-Eight-Six beauty, with your speed dial-hands,
Peer your sweet hue, which methinks still, doth stands;

Through many winter’s seasons have I seen,
Improvements to your soul that require much green;

New parts on thy frame, faster pace perceived,
Now you hath quicker motion so eyes may be deceived;

Fresh Boxster, just wait for spring from winter’s turn'd,
April streets coming soon, tires shall be burn'd.

[Jager]

I would like to add this poem to this thread; I think it belongs here. I wrote this for JD cutting some cheese with his “Bird” a few months ago on another thread.



My birds' eyes are like the setting sun,
In my yellow nine-eight-six she’s plenteous fun;

Cabernet wine is far redder than her lips' red,
If hairs be silk, golden silk grows on her head;

I have smelled countless roses, red and white,
Her perfumes provide similar delight;

But no such roses I sense near her cheeks,
For some reason my bird suddenly reeks!

I love to hear her speak, soft evening breeze,
But hark; I believe she just cut the cheese;

That nightcap had a far more pleasing sound,
My bird squawked, time to hit the ground;

A wine bouquet meant to breathe, tis not,
My once attractive bird, now not quite as hot;

And yet, by heaven, in my Boxster uptown,
Swiftly push the button, relief, convertible top down.