The Ballad of Richard Leadfoote
by Dick Katzman.
Set up on high ground,
three miles all around,
and ringed by dune and ridge.
Overlooking the bay,
and sailors at play,
is the track that is known as “The Bridge”
To The Bridge there came
in search of fame
a youngster handsome to see.
Eyes burning with fire,
winning races his desire.
His ride was a red MG T
A natural born driver
an ambitious striver
with the Gods of race at his bid
Richard never was headed
by his class he was dreaded
his MG ran away and hid.
All was fine for a while
and Richard did smile
as honors and praise accrued.
Yet in his mind’s eye
refusing to die
a Formula 1 goal brewed
At a bar while drinking
he got started thinking
how nice it would be for a ride.
Just then a gent
with an elegant bent
stepped up to the bar at his side
“Richard my lad
don’t look so sad
let not your troubles linger
A wager we’ll do
your dreams will come true”
then he lit a cigar with his finger.
A race we will run
in Mgs for fun
A formula ride I’m proposing
If you win it is thine
If you lose you are mine
No ifs ands or buts or supposing
“I’ll take that bet
I’m the fastest man yet”
boasted Richard, demanding the pole
“The Bridge is the place
to hold this race
If I’m to hold onto my soul
The devil’s MG
was a sight to see,
dead black with red numerals fixed.
fenders flared, body sleek
a racer at peak
the numbers read six sixty six.
The crew of the T
was frightening to see
All had been dead for years.
Taruffi , Ascari,
Clark , Nuvolari.
Richard fought to control his fears.
Round the track they did ride,
The T’s side by side,
By neither an advantage yielded
Airborne and rambling
dicing and scrambling
The best racing pair ever fielded.
Mile after mile
with incredible style
The T cars fought for the lead
and then in a burst
the devil was 1st.
Richard prayed to his God for speed.
For a driver in need
it was thus decreed
That Richard could not be bested
A tie was perceived
with his soul retrieved
Richard vowed never again to be tested.
Now Richard still races,
with the best he paces
Yey something has changed in his driving
Quick in time.
and always on line,
But midpack is where he’s arriving.
And so when at night
when you get a bit tight
and the Devil comes singing his song
Don’t dance to the tune
It’s sure to bring ruin
and to Hell you’ll be going ere long.
Thus ends this story
of a gamble for glory
Poor Richard almost did roast
Run fast, never fret
Run hard, never bet
‘cause the Devil will take the hindmost.
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