From American Motorcycles Association

September 1972

By Doc Tait

The little Benelli lay on his belly,

at the end of the very first heat.

In round number two he was nearly through,

when a slick spot made him unseat.

In round number three it was him or me,

there was only room for one heel.

I was sorry to see him ride into that tree,

with the flagman astride his front wheel!

Free popcorn and more after round number four,

he’d wiped out the food stand, but good!

He made it alive through a wild round five,

‘Tho no one believed that he could.

In event number six while trying to fix,

a hotsshoe that dangled in vain,

he was flung to the ground like those all around,

when he darn thing got stuck in his chain.

Round seven, a scare, almost cost him a pair,

the gas cap flipped up as he showed.

The crowd was excited when his leathers ignited,

and the manager ran for a hose.

It was just pure fate in heat number eight,

that he got to race in it at all.

The line to the head, that he’d come to dread,

had twenty-five out in the hall.

He was first off the line in event number nine,

running full speed behind his machine.

In event number ten he fooled everyone when,

he won it!