Five ounces to the nanogram, weighed on a jeweler's scale,
More precious than the purest gold, so starts my little tale,
A block of balsa wood transformed, into a sleek machine,
Fathers with their sons in hand, anticipation keen.
A rite of passage every spring, each father with his son,
Gentlemen prepare your cars, pinewood derby has begun,
Up to the track each boy is called, race car to gently place,
Two by two at starting gate, and down the track to race.
The next race called is Steve and Jim, Steve's car a red corvette,
Beside it sits an ugly duckling, its paint still sticky wet,
No father stands behind son Jim, his mother Sue stands there,
Its hard to tell the car's a car, it seems the wheels are square.
The race is held, a walkaway, the 'vette wins by a mile,
But on the face of little Jim, all see a beaming smile,
As he turns back to mother Sue, and gives a little shrug,
Says, "Thank you Mom, we tried our best," then gave his mom a hug.
I've not seen Jim in quite some years, I often did see Sue,
No prouder mother ever was, nor finer woman too,
Ten years have passed since derby night, and God has taken Sue,
I go to pay my last respects, the least that I can do.
Besides Sue's head on pillow there, beside her peaceful smile,
I see a race held long ago, memories never gone,
A wooden car with sticky paint, that loses by a mile,
What looks a car, its wheels seem square, I see a graceful swan.
[This message has been edited by Mike (edited 12-19-1999).]