CHAPTER FIVE - Fantasies  Go To Main Table  Go To More Book Chapters

Hound and the Hare

                By George J. Kimble


Out on that West Texas plain

A couple dozen miles out of Loraine

I had the Vette in cruise

Rolling like plain folks do


Late at night and growing weary

With patches of mist the desert is scary

No traffic out there to break the monotony

All alone and dreamy thoughts coming to me


When, there in the mirror

Something in the mist, was getting clearer

It was closing in fast

I was glad to have some company at last

It was a big Caddy Eldo

Flying wide and flying low

I thought, OK, you are the hare

I am the hound, as long as I dare


Figured if the man had tickets to write

I’d just keep that Eldo barely in sight

It wasn’t my plan to go to jail!

I’ll keep some distant as I trail


Roads in West Texas are straight and flat

Nothing but sagebrush and things like that

The Caddy was slipping out of view

I kept bumping up the cruise


Miles came and miles went

Caddy was booking, like a tenant that can’t pay the rent

Faster and faster hour after hour

They build those Caddies with plenty of power


I guessed out here, there ain’t no speed trap

And decided to close the gap

Took it out of cruise and grabbed fifth

Rounded a little curve in a four wheel drift


Pegged it and saw the back of the drivers head

Closed in, like the reaper on the dead

I pulled along side, the mist was a swirl

The Eldo was driven by a girl


I asked the Vette for just a little bit more

As I got even to her door

I could see her smile as she laid the hammer down

This was a hare that liked to tease the hound


Caddy and Vette neck to neck

Two-lane highway, what the heck

Off in the distance, a semi truck

How far could we push the luck?


Like two cats on an alley fence

Things were getting sort of tense

Was this a mistake?

Should I tap my brake?


Head lights getting too near

This rabbit had no apparent fear

High beams start to flash

I brake, let it pass


Next instant that lady is gone

Sky is lighted in the dawn

No Eldo, no tail lights

Strange things happen in the desert at night


I pull into a filling station

Get a cup of coffee, try to stop shaking

I tell my story to the locals there

They laugh, “I’m not the first hound to chase the phantom hare”

One Hundred And Ten in The Shade

                             By George J. Kimble


I was pushing across the bayou country of Louisiana

Tip toe crushing the gas pedal like a banana

My long hair tied back in a bright blue bandanna

The old Corvette Sting Ray is hauling me to see my sweet Rosy Anna


I must have been doing a shade over One Hundred and Ten

I was crossing one of those long wooden bridges with alligators under them

I hadn’t seen a place to pull over since I don’t know when

All of a sudden cutting through the swamp vapors I heard a siren


Wherever that Parish Constable was hid, I’ll never know

He was whipping that old four door Pontiac as fast as it would go

His siren wailing, headlights blinking, and bubble gum machine all a glow

For a moment, I contemplated hammering it just to see that poncho blow


But instead, I just slowed down

And started looking to pull over onto some solid ground

And finally spotted a sandy mound

I can still hear that eerie siren sound


The sunglassed stereotypical constable stopped and jumped out

He didn’t have a PA system and just began to shout

“Put your hands up and get your butt out”

He had his pistol drawn and he meant business I had no doubt


He said, “Put both hands on the trunk of the car”

On his chest was pinned a brightly polished star

He grabbed one hand then the other and cuffed them really hard

That angered me, but I knew better than to hassle that tub of lard


He was huffing and puffing and sweat formed on his brow

He spoke in a “Cajun” accent in a guttural growl

He yammered, “You gonna see the Judge now”

Then he dragged me back to that Pontiac scow


He turned the cruiser around in a blur

I asked, “What about my Corvette sir?”

He just acted as if he couldn’t hear

And then asked if I’d been drinking beer


We pulled into a town built along a railroad track

There was a brick building surrounded by a lot of shacks

My hands were sore, cuffed behind my back

Moreover, this fine officer wasn’t going cut me no slack


The judge appeared blind in one eye and couldn’t see from the other

He was the spitting image of the cop, they must be brothers

I started saying my prayers to the holy mother

When I saw them whispering one to another

The proceedings were short and concise

For my indiscretion of speed, I would have to pay a price

Since I was sober, the judge would be nice

But, 110 meant the penalty would be compounded twice


The debt that now must be paid

Was sixty days of labor in these everglades

Clearing brush from the roadside with a machete blade

Every day has been at least 110 in the shade


I was treated worse than a new army recruit

I did my time in a stripped suit

I was warned the guard would shoot

And had blood hounds in case of pursuit


They turned me loose after many appeals

And, when I asked about my wheels

They chuckled and laughed with little squeals

The giggled they had sold it to pay for my meals


Every one knows swamps are filled with scary creatures

We have seen them in late night movie features

But, I was never informed by my teachers

Nor enlightened in church by my preachers


About the predators who cast a net

Who upon a traveler are beset

That I encountered with regret

That devoured two months and my Red Corvette

Heat Stroke

                                By George J. Kimble


The heat, the dust

The course east across the desert crust

The miragic shimmer on the endless blacktop

The Corvette seats sticking to the back of my shirt top


I pushed on speeding with no remorse

I was on a mission, a survivor of divorce

She got the house, the mini van, and personal checks

But, she was not going to get, my old Corvette


The fuel gauge was sinking ominously low

The engine was hot and I feared it would blow

When I spotted the station, it seemed another mirage

But, soon I could read the rusty sign, “Desert Lodge”


We’ve all seen these arcane sites

Oasis overcome by years of blight

A dinner and hotel in combination

Just to the rear of the filling station


I pull in and create an awesome dust cloud

The sweat and dust make mud on my brow

As I stand, my head is all a whorl

The heat is stifling, I almost hurl


A three toothed old man in a dingy T-shirt

Walks up and ask, “ Stranger are you hurt”

“You look kind of ill”

“You had better just stand still”


I reply, that I am all right

But, that Sun seems excessively bright

He says, “Stranger you need a rest”

“I’ll fill your tank with high test”


He moves in slow motion to start that chore

I stagger and stumble to the dinner door

Struggling, in the darkened dinner, to focus my eyes

I can smell the aroma of fresh baked pies


I plunk my butt on a red covered stool

There’s a over head fan blowing some cool

To my right, there’s a box of ICE COLD POP

On another stool sits the local cop


He looks at me then out the window

He says, “That your Vette? How fast will it go?”

It’s hard to talk when your mouth is so dry

But, I manage to mumble that it will fly


A beautiful woman, on the counter, sets some water

I grab it and guzzle, thinking she must be the owner’s daughter

The cop lays down some change as he leaves

The swinging door kicks up a little breeze


The old man comes in and says,” Your Vette is filled up son”

The woman says, ”I love Corvettes, but, No one around here ever had one”

Her voice is light and extremely soothing

Very melodic, in her south western drawing


The old man says, “I don’t mean to be rude”

“But, I get paid for the gas, before you get your food”

Forty two fifty is his exorbitant price

I realize, it won’t do any good to gripe


I tell the beauty I’m ready to eat

And ask, what goes good with all this heat?

She smiles and prepares a cold cuts platter

I can’t help myself; I just keep staring at her


She says, “The deserts days are awfully hot”

But, “ The nights really are not”

I eat the food very slow

Something is making me not want to go


We converse just to be polite

I ask her, how much it cost to spend the night?

She tells me and adds, she was once a bride

Unfortunately her young husband died


Casually she says, “If you stay the night,

You could take me for a ride, it would be a delight”

I almost choked on a chunk of meat

Then I realized she meant on the Corvette seat


I stayed and we took that Corvette ride

I’m ashamed; that I was glad her husband had died

I never thought to stay in the desert

And, I did buy “Pops” a new T-shirt


If it weren’t for that Corvette

I wouldn’t be so happy, you can bet

Stranger things could happen in life

But, I am glad I made that beauty my wife


Plain Brown Rapper

                By George J. Kimble


Five Point Oh and my LT One

Mustang bumpin’ bass like a gun


On a dark street side by side

Vette’s already, gonna ride


Three hundred horses chompin’ at the bit

Pony and Bow Tie just won’t quit


Engines strainin’ in the night

Hold the clutch wait for the light


      Street Racer, Crazy Greaser

      Call me what ya like

      Sounds bumpin’, tires jumpin’

      Lets go racin’ tonight


Smoke and nitro in the air

Money bet on a dare


Street racin’ it ain’t legal

Win the money, soar like an eagle


Dump the clutch, grab that gear

This is the time to have no fear


Street lights flashing, look like dots

Oh my God I think it’s the cops


       Street Racer, Crazy Greaser

       Call me what ya like

       Sounds bumpin’, tires jumpin’

       Let’s go racin’ tonight


Winnin’s spent to go on bail

Ol’ man found out. Kicked my tail


No new tires for my Vette

Gotta find a Mustang, make a bet


Turbo’s screamin’, sounds real bad

That Saleen Mustang can be had


All them Ponys wanna try,

But this LT One can really fly.


       Street Racer, Crazy Greaser

       Call me what ya like

       Sounds bumpin’, tires jumpin’

       Let’s go racin’ tonight


Next time you’re out late at night

Check the machines at the light


Every night again and again

On the streets, it’s what’s happenin’


Street racin’ may be a crime

Put up your money , bet a dime


Dudes and dudettes hear my cry

I’ll be runnin this Vette ‘till I die


       Street Racer, Crazy Greaser

       Call me what ya like

       Sounds bumpin’, tires jumpin’

       Let’s go racin’ tonight

Primer Gray After Dark

                By George J. Kimble


He has grease under his fingernails

Levi's under his shirttails

He's got a creeper in his garage

He's working on a motor, rather large


He leans over low and sleek

And gives the ignition another tweak

The Vette wears primer and knock off wheels

To him it's not how it looks, but how it feels


His ideal ain't no beauty show

His ambition is grab it and go

He'll labor there for hours

Then onto the street, in lust for power


Crusin' past the drive-in

Local cops all think it's a sin

Socialabilty test? Probably failed.

Cops want to put him in jail


Mustang at the next red light

Those Pony drivers think they own the night

Mustang drivers never run for much

Most will only bet ten bucks


Viper slips out of its lodge

Boy is that a steamin' Dodge

V-10 power and manual clutch

Would that challenge the Vette too much?


With a gesture from the hand

Viper pulls up to make a stand

The driver is smiling proud

Low side pipes growling loud


A short moment to set the prize

A long look into each other's eyes

Back at home mechanical parts

On the street a racer's heart


On the light his mind does rest

He's confident the Vette will stand the test

Rpm’s rising high

Dump the clutch; let it fly


He didn't build the Vette for turnin' corners

He's got it lit on all eight burners

Tires squat under torque

Grab a gear, feel the engine work


Eighth mile whizzes by

Vette is trailing by a wink of an eye

Viper needs to shift a gear

Vette grabs third, squall is all you hear


Quarter mile was just a flash

Shut it down, collect the cash

Get back home and check it out

Get it ready for tomorrow’s bout


On the streets there's no checkered flag

On the street there's no time to brag

When he wins he feels real giddy

For his adversaries he has no pity


He may not be the local hero

But he knows he fastest starting from zero

If you think you can beat him

Come on out any night and meet him


Always waiting for another bet

Another challenge for his Vette

He'll be crusin' past your park

Primer Gray after dark

Pumping Iron

                By George J. Kimble


He was a skinny looking kid

He couldn’t do athletics like the others did

He always had sand kicked into his face

To his sisters he was a big disgrace


His shirt had pen marks over the pocket

His beady eyes were sunk deep within their sockets

He was comfortable with algebra books and beakers

Corduroy pants and black high topped sneakers


When he was sixteen he learned how to drive

He had saved all his money since he was age five

He set out alone to find himself some wheels

None of the tote the note lots would cut him a deal


While walking home, he spied a poster

FOR SALE, Chevrolet, by original owner

Exterior red, Interior black

Tires good, Paint inferior


The hand written sign seemed a little strange

He wrote down the number, it was a local exchange

In his house, he picked up the phone

It rang and rang as if no one was home


After several tries he heard, “Hello”

The voice of an old woman, soft and mellow

He quickly mentioned the hand lettered sign

Asked her address, she said, ”South Main corner of Pine”


He asked many other questions, but received few replies

“Yes, It was old” a sixty something she surmised

“It had been setting so long it’s battery was probably not alive”

“If he had an interest he should take it for a drive”


He begged his big sister to carry him there

She said, “Okay”, as soon as she finished doing her hair

On the way, he bought new cables in a box

He went to the door and gave a great knock


He noticed a barn out in back

Then the door opened just a small crack

He heard that small voice coming from within

It said, “Go around back”, where she would meet him


At the barn door, he gave his mightiest tug

With a second try, it finally budged

There were cobwebs and a great deal of clutter

In a finger of sunlight, he saw a figure under a cover


Coughing from dust in a cloud

Slowly he peeled back the shroud

With a terrible shiver, all up his spine

He beheld an Icon frozen in time


Her asking price was incredibly small

Since it was a Chevrolet Corvette side pipes and all

Since his good fortune and spectacular find

He has remained frail, gentle, and kind


Now no one insults him and calls him an elf

He is simply referred to as:



                By George J. Kimble


Ol’ Billy was a proud man

He always polished his car

He’d buff and wax ‘till every damn part was shinning like a mid-night star


The girl’s name was Lucy

She really knew how to drive

She could grab those gears and could out shift any darn man alive


Now, Billy had an urgency

He liked to drive too fast

He had a big right foot and you know he kept it on the gas


One night Billy was out driving

He was trying to make a bet

That’s when he was humiliated, by Lucy in her red Corvette


He had a bad bad seven-liter Ford

The baddest machine in precinct or ward

Meanest car of it’s kind

Faster than a bum, jumpin’ on a dime


Now the two cars took to racin’

Rubbin’ fenders and Bumpin’ doors

Billy’s foot slipped off the clutch and his tranny came through the floor


Lucy was a nice girl

She hated to see a grown man cry

She told him to go fix that Ford, and she’d give him another try


You Know Billy wasn’t stupid

Some even called him wise

When he came back, that Ford, would be highly customized


Now, the time was a little later

Maybe, about a month or so

And Billy was begging Lucy, to have another go


He had a bad bad seven-liter Ford

Baddest machine in precinct or ward

Meanest car of it’s kind

Faster than a bum, jumpin’ on a dime


This time things were different

Billy made no goofs

He out ran ol’ Lucy, and I swear I’m telling the truth


Lucy didn’t fall for that

But she was quite dismayed

She demanded to peek under his hood, before she would ever pay

Ol’ Billy got very irritated

And that was her first clue

The big block was Chevy orange and not Ford dark blue


Lucy condemned Ol' Billy

You should be doing time

Because, to put a Chevy mill, inside a Ford, has got to be a crime


Billy had to soon confess

He cheated to win their bet

And his four door Ford was really an over sized Corvette


He had a bad bad Chevy powered Ford

Most modified machine in precinct or ward

Strangest car, one of a kind

Faster than a bum jumpin’ on a dime

Reality Check

                By George J. Kimble


Oh, How great a world it would be

For an old Corvetter just like me

To have a place on the open Highway,

To have that Super Slab my way


A road devoid of Mini vans

Cell phone users driving with both hands

No Semi’s drearily lugging up hill

Winabagoes corralled in parking lots still


A place, where ol’ beater isn’t driven by a drunk

No road kills, not even a dead skunk

All truck tires remaining on their rim

My hot coffee never spilling over the brim


No kamikaze bugs or fresh hot tar

Glistening paint and fresh tires on my car

Ticket givers asleep on the roadside

My best friend just along for the ride


Left lane loafers quickly pull to the right

No double bottom trailers are anywhere in sight

Every traffic light is permanently green

Gas station restrooms are immaculately clean


No glare of Sun beams into my eye

No insect in my cabin nor buzzing fly

At night, on coming lights are kindly muted

No horns blown or angrily tooted


Potholes have all been eliminated

Every off ramp is well illuminated

Easily seen directional signs

Traffic congestion is only behind


Road construction done only at night

No litter, trash, nor roadside blight

Speed limits are completely removed

Corvette tires sticking like they are glued


Other’s lane changes are always signaled

Once over, their flasher, is promptly canceled

Sunday drivers all stayed at home

Open highway for my Corvette to roam


With such a place, I know, no one is blessed

These crazy notions, I should arrest

My brain surgery, they say went well

And soon, they will release me from this padded cell

Vette Dreams

                By George J. Kimble


She sees the man on the darkened street

The motor pulse matches her heart beat

He sees her and starts to grin

She likes the set of his squared chin


Confident and bright, their eyes meet

She motions him into the Corvette’s seat

The engine growls low and deep

From the curb she starts to creep


He detects the scent of gas and nitrous

He thinks to himself “ this vette could be serious”

He smiles and ask “How fast will it go ?”

She laughs and lies, “I really don’t know.”


Onto the street with a jerk of the wheel

She grabs second ,the tires squeal

Deep down inside she loves the throb

The corvette motor transmits to the shifter knob


He looks over to check on the tach

She hits third and the seat slaps his back

Around the bend and up the hill

Miles per hour climbing still


In fourth gear the corvette engine roars

Like an airplane as it soars

Flying low across deserted land

She drives the vette with the caress of her hand


Star light and Moon beams dance on the hood

The wind in her hair feels so good

He shouts “Girl you sure can drive!”

The corvette makes her feel completly alive.


Reveling in a sense of power

They roll on hour after hour

Nerves and sinew and intense emotion

Perspiring brows , a beast in motion


She wets her lips and it evaporates

Over the hills they undulate

Abandoned thoughts and freedom’s flight

Drinking up the essence of the night

He pinches himself, He must be dreaming

A beautiful woman and a Corvette screaming

Lust of speed at Corvette’s full song

She does not stop ‘till the crack of dawn


Winding down to the very last exit

A cup of coffee and another cigarette

With a sharp glance like cold blue steel

She is gone. Was she real?