The bike Acquisitor - a poem by Guzzi Bob
January 10, 2015
In years gone by, Rod Stoneman built a terrific orange VW trike,
but he sold it just as he sold stacks of almost new bikes.
He’s a bit more restrained these days in retirement and doesn’t turn them over quite as quickly.
THE BIKE ACQUISITOR
He’s faithful to Chris and to his new trike,
But God help our Rod when he sees a new bike.
He’s owned so damned many, you could call him a junkie,
But his orange Volks trike that’s oh-so-spunky
Is his own creation, a prized design
And we all think the same, “Wish it was mine.”
What a battle he had with those bureaucrats,
You know the sort, those f..ing fat cats
That strut round their offices putting on airs
Thinking up fool rules and splitting more hairs,
Insisting on seatbelts and in between fags,
Scheming to force Rod to mount driver’s bags
With skyhooks in front of the handlebars.
You’ve got it, it’s plain, they think with their a..e.
But to focus on Rodney, though a builder of trikes,
Is a hopeless born junkie when it comes to bikes
And his repertoire shows an expensive taste
But it saves not the bikes, they all go in haste
Both along the roads then out the door,
Rod’s motto is, “More, gimme more more more!”
It’s enough to make you drop your jaw.
He’s just sold a monstrous great luxury Beemer
In the SS Black shade of the dread Heinrich Himmler
A huge two-wheeled Bismarck with not many miles,
“It wore out the tyres,” Rod blithely smiles.
Before that he had an affair with a ‘Wing,
And that was an even briefer thing.
His rare Honda Turbo, it too copped the chop,
And both his STs soon rolled back to the shop
Where Rod is well-known as a regular visitor,
In fact, they call him, “The bike acquisitor”.
He recently pondered an early sports Guzzi
But these days his memory gets rather fuzzy
And he can’t recall what he thought of last week,
So he heads to his favourite bike-shops to seek
A fresh wave of two-wheeled inspiration
And the state of his lounge-room’s an indication
Of a disordered, acquisitive state of mind,
There are more brochures there than I dreamed I could find,
But I confess I’m plain jealous, talking out my behind!
Telemachus Marcus - a poem by Guzzi Bob
January 10, 2015
Tell us Telemachus Marcus
(God this is a verbal fracas)
Tell of your award
Tell us Marcus, don’t just nark us
By falling on your sword.
Tell us Telemachus Marcus
Were you expecting this?
A Telemachus Medal
As the Pres's farewell kiss.
We thank you Telemachus Marcus
For your nimble wit and fun
So bask in all the glory mate
For a great job so well done.
You steered the good ship Torrens Valley
Through much varied weather,
But thanks to your fine leadership,
It’s hanging well together.
I won’t meddle with the metal of your medal,
Be it bronze or gold,
But just pay tribute to your mettle
Recalling days of old.
Happy Sixtieth Robbo - a poem by Guzzi Bob
January 11, 2015
No explanation needed, though this mate’s given up fagging,
he now rides a Honda trike and he’s got a grand-daughter too.
Happy Sixtieth Robbo
Sixty years?? Well I’ll be damned,
I reckon this old hooligan’s crammed
Two lifetimes into sixty years,
Motorcycles, stoushes, beers,
Rising through the ETSA ranks
With lots of work and p’raps some pranks!
Marrying his love, Lorraine,
She found him quite a challenge to tame!
Coaching softball for his girls,
Aren’t those two a pair of pearls?
Loves his hobbies, loves his sport,
Of course he could only barrack for PORT!!
Stirring Ulysses with all his jokes,
Disobeying the doc with smokes,
Riding far on his Yamaha,
Says they’re the best value by far,
Takes computers right to heart,
Yep, the old boy’s pretty smart,
And grandpa to a tribe of boys,
Who play it rough with lots of noise
Like someone else of long ago,
In Broken Hill, our young Robbo!
His tribe are dinky-die with guts,
Their genes mean they are all tough nuts,
And Robbo “disciplines” this crowd,
Though secretly he’s very proud
Of each adventure or black eye,
You wouldn’t really wonder why!
Yeah Robbo, you’re a mate to all,
You live life like it’s all a ball,
You’re civilised now, travelled but still..
You’re still a son of Broken Hill.
Happy sixtieth, enjoy your cake,
I’ll shut up soon and give you a break,
But first you guests get off your arses.
And drink a toast, let’s raise our glasses.
Here’s to Robbo at sixty years.
Let’s drink to his health and give him three cheers!
Hip-hip, Hooray! Hip-hip, Hooray! Hip-hip, Hooray!!!