The Speed Demon's Funeral                                                                                                   

I have lived my life at a breakneck speed in the seat of a racing car,
In many a race I have set a pace like the flare of a shooting star,
And whether I end in a gorgeous smash or die in a humdrum way
Is simply up to the Great God Luck, the boss of the game I play;
But when I am done with my final run, no longer to know or feel
The leap and lift of the motors swift or the yank of the steering wheel,
Don't put my dust in a crawling hearse with its mournful pomp and show,
With its plumes that wave their somber black and its horses plodding slow,
No--lash me fast to a panting car that's stripped to its racing gear,
With a reckless lad at the steering wheel who never has heard of fear,
Let my funeral train be those I've raced in the days of my strength and zest,
Then start us off with a pistol shot for the last race and the best,
Though my clay be numb to the roaring drum as the drivers tempt their fate,
My soul shall leap as the great cars sweep on the road to the graveyard gate;
And oh, I trust, in that final spurt, when the winning number's flashed,
I shall lead the race to my resting place--with all of the records smashed!









Published in: The Popular Magazine - June 7, 1918




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