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I am fascinated by an old car.
A Model S2000, from Honda you see,
Get's the blood pressure up, for me.
Not too practical for me, to be at
But reminds me when I had my Fiat.
A Fiat Spyder, Model one twenty four,
French Blue in color, four on the floor.
A convertible top with two latches to click.
I could drop the top, sitting in traffic.
A great toy, that I did really enjoy.
The S2000's I see, makes be feel like a boy.

There are some stories, quite old,
About going prospecting for gold.
I'm sure you have heard them before,
As they are now part of Western Lore.
Searching through forests and bare hillside;
Walking most always but an occasional ride.
Searching and searching in rocks that erode,
Looking for the very elusive, "Mother Lode."
Hearing these tales, while around a fire,
Trying to determine if true or a liar.
No one will tell you, where it is found.
Only one place, deep in the ground.

It was at 5, in the morning hour
When a flash of words, did occur,
As I laid in bed. Four lines did emerge,
Written in my mind; no compelling urge
To arise from my toasty warm bed
And write them down, while in my head.
Alas, they are gone, far away from me
And now lost. No longer my reverie.

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