Red Barchetta

My uncle has a country placeThat no one knows about.He says it used to be a farmBefore the Motor Law.And on Sundays I elude the Eyes,And hop the Turbine FreightTo far outside the WireWhere my white-haired uncle waits.Jump to the groundAs the Turbo slows to cross the borderline.Run like the windAs excitement shivers up and down my spine.Down in his barnMy uncle preserved for me an old machineFor fifty-odd years.To keep it as new has been his dearest dream.I strip away the old debrisThat hides a shining car:A brilliant red BarchettaFrom a better vanished time.We fire up the willing engineResponding with a roar.Tires spitting gravel,I commit my weekly crime.WindIn my hairShifting and driftingMechanical musicAdrenaline surge...Well-weathered leather,Hot metal and oil,The scented country air.Sunlight on chrome,The blur of the landscape,Every nerve aware.Suddenly ahead of meAcross the mountainsideA gleaming alloy air-carShoots towards me, two lanes wide.I spin around with shrieking tiresTo run the deadly raceGo screaming through the valleyAs another joins the chase.Drive like the windStraining the limits of machine and man.Laughing out loud with fear and hopeI've got a desperate plan.At the one-lane bridgeI leave the giants stranded at the riverside.Race back to the farmTo dream with my uncle at the fireside.