The roof laughed as I longed to be alone,
to go out to nature and cut her down,
to work to ignore the feelings I have,
to dismiss all those who sing hero’s praise,
those ignorant bastards
who claim it’s tragedy,
who never watch
unless a man has died,
and we can all go oooh,
and the TV men so sensitive, telling me
I don’t need to watch, but they will show it
nine more times, allowing
every human excuse:
It’s not his fault! (No Shit.)
All of these hushed men
who feel they know dramatic,
know human better than you and I.
I know human and dramatic,
‘tis why I love the sport, but others
only come here when there’s death.
I like the anger, the tension, the fight.
I fear the death (or do I really)
and I am running away.
I fear the emotion
Despicable that a sport deserving attention
only sacks it when there is “tragedy.”
but these guys, their only fear is
“NOT HAVING A RIDE,” and I imagine
myself, having a fear of not having a desk.
These guys do what they do for pure fun
and addicting fun that cannot be dropped.
We can hold our mouths open at all
developments, all designs to keep drivers
safe, but at the wall, the drivers
are good with death,
so why do we claim tragedy?
Why do we mourn them more than our own
family, our own loved ones? Why do we act
as if tragedy has befallen
our own lives,
and why do we repair
For I remember
how dastardly he was
to his crew
on the radio,
and remember feeling
he was bad, inhuman,
he was an ass,
but now I refuse to feel that,
and I remember the charm
he had for Americans
while he drank their milk.
I have respect,
and if it would have been
Tony, oh my goodness,
Dan was a race car driver.
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