SHE arrived a flash of passion, a time my teeth were gnashing’ for a taste of something racy.
My long true love, Maria, you’ll understand, I fear, was no longer all that tasty.
We’d been a pair since way back where, my love, Maria, and me.
She was like a mother, no red hot lover, just soft and warm you see.
Then this Madonna from Bologna said: “Why’a don’ya come ride me ’round the block?”
She was rough around the edges, cracked paint, and all the pledges I gave Maria, mattered not.
I threw my bum upon’er, the Madonna from Bologna, my knees, her tank did scuff.
She was thin and lean and lithe and keen: ‘Take me out and treat me rough’.
It took a while to get her started, she spat and popped and growled and farted, then a sensuous, pulsing idle.
A shiver down my spine, I had to make her mine; her pull was almost tidal.
Down the drive and on the street, the crouch felt good, my hands, my feet, but she surged and moaned like trouble.
I thought perhaps, to walk away as she shook and rolled and rattled, but then I hit the freeway ramp and opened up the throttle.
Her plugs unfouled, her Contis howled, we aimed for the horizon.
I guess I fell for her right there, tucked in behind her fairing.
Here’s the thrill I’m aching for; the spark, the rush, the daring.
So I took Madonna home I did, and showered her with lust.
Paint, tyres, belts and NGKs, some Fertan for her rust.
I stripped her carbs and flushed them clean, new brake pads, lines of stainless.
Maria watching quietly, as if the sight was painless.


I took her to the dyno next, that man was a magician!
Madonna’s urge went through the roof, thanks to this bloke’s volition.
I vowed right then, it had to be, to the race track we would go.
And so we did, Madonna and me, north to Barbagallo.
I rode her hard, I rode her deep, she howled with pure delight, but something happened in The Bowl, something was just not right.
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CAPTION: Pic by Stephen Oswald
A bearing loose? A valve a’bouncing? Or maybe just Madonna flouncing her skirts to one and all.
But then I heard it; sobbing — t’was Maria’s heartbroke call.
And so Madonna went away, no longer is she mine, and Maria seems more happy now, she knows I’m hers alone.
She gets my love, and some lust too, sometimes she hits the mark!
I treat her well with plugs and oils, a sheepskin seat for bling.
Perhaps one day we’ll hit the track and have our own hot fling.
But as we cruise the open road, I do recall Madonna.
She bought me back to life some how; forget her? I’m not gonna.
Her racer crouch, her shapely lines her deep and throaty growl.
And that first time on the freeway,
when I made her Contis howl.

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Peter Terlick

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