A poem - QUONabee #3

Their ashen faces showed their grief oh so clear,

They’d come so close to winning the points total that year

What had gone wrong, for the almighty Quon?

A decision just had to be made.

 

As they sat there bemoaning the loss of the cup,

Johnson strode pass and said, ‘tough luck’.

‘if only you’d had me and my 40 grade points,

You’d have won and been happy, and sharing a joint’.

 

That’s it! They sighed

As they looked at each other,

That’s it! Next year,

we need Wombat’s big brother!

 

(to the sounds of angels singing)

 

With calves like iron and mighty strong thighs,

He rode with a killer’s cold look,

As he narrowed his eyes,

‘don’t worry boys, with me now in tow,

We’ll smash those fuckers, Suzuki Uno.

 

And then, oh yes friends, a mighty cheer went up,

They had to agree, even the one they call Smup,

‘he’ll ride for us now, of that we are certain,

We’ll take the title like we’re drawing a curtain

 

Across all riders, all teams and all grades,

We’ll walk it in, absolutely,

We’ll do it spades!

 

And so peace settled upon the group Quon,

And only one thing they had to decide upon.

 

Together and joyously in one collective throng,

Wondered aloud,

‘I bet he looks good in only a thong!’