986 Poetry
 

"Flowers anew the returning seasons bring ... without yellow there can be no Spring" .

Johnny "Wadsworth" Danger

A haiku about my boxster:


Car drives fine,
Must Upgrade vehicle,
Empty Wallet.

My haiku contribution...

Silver car approaches
Sirens are heard from afar
Tickets can be costly

There once was a man from Nantucket
But he wasn't "that" man from Nantucket
So he bought a 991

Dear God! Has it come to this???? " Bored, are we?" Yoda

AKL "Me thinks, therefore, me am":cool:

I'm surprised to hear such negativity from the Bardolator of New Paltz himself !

My Haiku.

Porsche engine revs
All heads turn to stare in aw
New dream car for all

Ghostrider...... I think I just p*ssed myself! Hilarious!

JD These should sell like hotcakes at the church breakfast in Boston, sure would explain all the rubbin' is racin' that goes on in that city.


Bottom Line - Helen Keller sunglasses create a stir

Hmm... they'll go well with my line of Telly Savalas hair products .

The guarantee includes the "never see scratches" lens technology

Now don't go getting your leather panties all in a wad there Monsour. Gerous, for what it is worth!!! You seem to have an inordinate amount of time on your hands these days. Maybe we could press you into service de ambering halogen headlights???

PS our trip to F40 is off for the first Sat. in May. Seems like they have dropped the Open House annual deal. Just cars & coffee from 7:30am till around 10am I believe.


AKL

One more while my prose is still flowing .

Roses are red ... violets are blue ... if your boxster isn't yellow ... shame on you .

I will be in NP sometime in May or June for a visit.

I lol'ed. Have to make this 10 characters to post too??

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
and so did my IMS

Boy on my winshield. A Narrative.

I sat in my cockpit
And there he was
Clinging to my wipers
Just because...
Twas a ride he wanted
In my 986
Hang on young cherub
Cuz your pants you'll sh**ts
Attachment 16147

Hark, hark arise my sweet boxster ... for it is I Danger who calls ...

Wow, the creative juices are really starting to flow now !

From fairest creatures we desire speed,
That thereby Boxster beauties might never bleed,
But as the race car driver should by time decrease,
His tender IMS bearing might bear untimely decease:
But thou, contracted to Porsche’s own coat of arms,
Making high speed due to no more DME alarms,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with premium fuel,
Thyself thy foe, to thy driver self too cruel.
Thou that art world's German made ornament,
Within thine own mind buriest thy motor content,
And only herald to the gaudy suspension spring,
And, tender churl, makest waste in steering and handling.
Pity the world, or else this driver be,
To enjoy the world's due, by the garage and thee.

Wow, Longfellow has nothing on you Jagermeister !!!!!!!!

Those hours, that with Boxster work did frame,
Will play the competitors to the very same:
The careful gaze where every eye doth dwell,
And that unfair gloss which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting waxing and polishing time leads on,
Sap cheque'd with dust and earth now quite gone:
To hideous bugs and tar confounds thy there,
Boxster bareness and cleanliness now everywhere:
Then, were not automotive cleanser distillation left,
Thy soap container and wax bottle were bereft:
Now liquid prisoners pent in walls of steel and glass,
Nor it nor remembrance of what its surface had amass:
But a filthy Porsche where paint and surfactants meet,
Leese but their show; a Boxster’s shine is always sweet.

Holy purple prose ! The forum has a new Bardolater !!!!

Shall I race thee on a hot summer's day?
Rough winds do shake the Boxster in May:
Thou art Porsche more stable and more temperate,
And summer's heat hath track date, not separate:
Sometime too hot, the nine eight six shines,
And every fair radiator sometime declines:
And often is the Porsche emblem gold complexion dimm'd,
By the wind of Ferrari’s changing course, red paint untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer competitions shall not fade,
Nor shall others brag thou wander'st to backyard shade:
Nor lose possession of that M96 motor thou owest,
When in eternal lines to time horse power growest:
So long as men can drive or race fans eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives winning trophies to thee.

We are in the presence of greatness . Behold Lord Jager !

Some roses are red,

And some violets are blue:

Jäger got new plates today,

See these you’ll know who.
http://986forum.com/forums/uploads01...1335564433.jpg

These are two plates that no one wants to tailgate behind !

That's it. If there were a heavyweight title belt for Prose, I'd be holding Jager's arm up by the wrist and handing to him right now. :matchup:

On my knees waving my arms at him. The Shakespeare of Boxster Prose everyone ! JAGER JAGER JAGER. :cheers: He is THE MAN !

You mean O'Jager, O'Jager, O'Jager !

BTW JD, I'm diggin those wheels on the Danger Mobile. :cheers:

Stop it! You're making me blush!:o

I was inspired today... It's in the 80's here on the central coast of California.

Why didst thou drive Boxster on such a beauteous day?
To enjoy top down and traffic admiring thee on thy way:
And to relish travel forth without thy coat,
Smelling all scents under the sun, including diesel smoke:
'Tis not enough that through the traffic thou break,
No Boxster beauty can Ford, Chevy, nor Chrysler make:
To feel sunburn pain on thy uncovered face,
Top-down heals embarrassment no disgrace:
Though thou repent not buying “S” model, slight loss,
Thy smaller nine-eight-six ‘tis still a blast driving auto-cross:
Windows down, top down, sunshine slight grief,
A Porsche cap and Maui Jims provide relief:
Ah! But those tears are not from speeding windblown eyes shed,
They are tears of joy and happiness driving thy Boxster sled.

We've got a regular Baudelaire on the forum !!!!!!!!!

By far my favorite thread !

Neither Longfellow or Baudelaire but Shags Pierre's sonnets.

Now the fellas ribbed me for bein' behind,
so I thought I'd make the Lincoln unwind.
Took my foot off the gas'n'man alive,
I shoved it on down into overdrive.

Wound it up to a hunderd an' ten,
my speedometer said that I hit top end.
My foot was glued like lead to the floor,
that's all there is an' there ain't no more.

Reads like a Johnny Cash song. :p

It's a commander cody song, a good one too

THE RABY
(with apologies to both Jake Raby and Edgar Allen Poe)


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 986 lore.
As I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a rapping, as of something gently tapping, rapping, from behind my driver's door.
Tis just valve noise, I muttered, just a sticky, tiicky valve lifter, tapping from behing my driver's door.
This it is and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, and each dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow from my books by Bentley,
encouragement that my intermediate shaft bearing, that that rare and radiant bearing, was not about to be, no more.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before, so that now, to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating
Tis just valve noise from a sticky lifter,
Just some valve noise from a sticky lifter,
Only this and nothing more.

Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely, said I, surely that is something at my window lattice
Let me see that, what thereat is, and this mystery explore
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore
Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
in there stepped a stately RABY of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mein of Lord or Lady, perched above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Porsche just above my chamber door, perched, and sat and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Tell this soul full of fear and dread, that the tapping of the motor is not the failing IMS bearing that I dread,
that my engine is not dead, that the sound is not the IMS death rattle, but just a valve and nothing more.
Quoth the Raby, 'Nevermore.'

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked up starting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the nights Plutonian shore
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart and take that form from off my door
Quoth the Raby, Nevermore.

And the Raby, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Porsche just above my chamber door
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demons that is dreaming
And the lamp light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor
And my soul from out the shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted, Nevermore!