He sputters his lips with a guttural rumble,
a V8 blast, plus a timing-belt stumble.
He downshifts to third and floors the gas,
slews sideways, corrects it, and pulls out to pass
two drag-assing fat girls blocking the hall
like side-by-side big rigs slowed to a crawl.
“They ought to print ‘Wide Load’ on their asses,
They’re holding up traffic. I’m late for my classes.”
He bleats like an air horn and flips them the bird
as they blink their eyes, not sure what’s occurred.
He squeals — laying rubber! His racing slicks spin.
“That weirdo belongs in the state loony bin!”
The second girl says, “I guess it’s car-thotic.”
The first girl replies, “It’s auto-erotic.”.
He zooms down the hallway, bends into curves,
and, revving his engine, he upshifts and swerves
toward algebra class, not hearing their jeers.
Roaring louder and louder, he winds through the gears.
They’re gone, they’re behind him, they’re history, they’re lost.
He’s a 440 hemi with a glass-pack exhaust.
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