Here I sit on the back of my car. Sitting carefully on the trunk, I wait for my opponent.

I see articles of street rods, turbos, advertisement after advertisement of new performance parts.

I am not swayed; I have done my research, and I know what’s fast, and I know what’s hype.

I’m not a rich man, nor are my parents rich, but all the blood, sweat, and tears that I’ve been able to put in my car gives me an aura of satisfaction.

She’s a 1968 Chevrolet Nova. Sleek, green, and mean. "350 Custom" is on her side, yet another badge of power that the car has.

No NOS, no turbo, nor sticker, nor rims.

Just a blower in the front, that’s all my mods stem.

Quietly sitting…

Quietly waiting…

For my chance…

I look at the stars, as I hear the roar,

I hear of all the others that were here before,

The cars with bright paint, back then a low price,

Now the bright paint, is all on rice.

My father also ran on this road.

A street race, no less I’m told.

His Chevelle, 396 SS,

Roared down the same road,

to see who was the best.

I quietly wonder what he’d think of me, to see me street racing a probability.

He taught me everything I know, that’s makes us unstoppable.

I wish he was here, that’s makes me sad,

I wish I could ride with my bad-ass dad.

Yet another roar of rev come here,

Yeah, it’s those damned ricers coming near.

With loud noises blaring from their cars,

Of rock, rap, and exhausts giving a fart.

White T-Shirt and faded jeans.

The hands that worked on cars,

The hands that bleed.

None of these people know this. They get their parents to pay for their hobby, or they’re rich.

I’m not. I’m glad.

V-8, torque, and muscle that’s mean

This is what street racing means to me.

I’m a dying breed, muscle cars are out,

All that’s left is the ricers doubt.

But I keep on going, heads turn the other way,

Damn those ricers, I’ll make them pay.

With wheelies at 750 horses, hey that’s fine.

"Hey ricer boy, it’s time!"