77' Maverick,
supercharged 351.
A trigger haired carb,
with a back fire like a gun.
Sun gleamed bright off spraypaint,
five cans straight flat black.
Flatline etched into the stripe,
running front to back.
AC*DC blasting,
'Highway to Hell' seemed true.
Pushin' her to her limits as 'Hell's Bells' played its tune.
Rearview mirror torn off, this time no looking back.
Somehow,
someway,
I'll forget, this damn forsaken past.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem