last updated 6/9/2006
Jump to: Poems. The latest poem.
Send Max some email if you have a quotation or poem to add.
The Scooter Quotations.
i'd rather push a cut-down than drive a plastic
Snail, Ayrshire Heros S.C., August '02.
"The VBB is the poor man's GS."
(Hugo's mate Bruno. Bruno now rides a CBR 900..).
"I bought this scoot to simply remove it's clutch but darn it I feel so sorry for it not even ever getting broken in did I mention it only has 692 miles, all of then spent crashing into stuff by the look of it. "
Matt wrote this of an NSU Five Star, and why he decided to fix it up. January 1999.
"Lambrettas. Pushed all over the world."
Michael C., Boston MA, July 1998. Note that Michael's friend Chris, who sent this quotation in, is a Lammy owner.
Jay H., Shrewsbury MA, July 1998
I done got stung once by old cars, now I get stung by old scooters. Man, if I had put the money into the car that I did into my scoots, I'd have a very nice Hillman Avenger by now...
"Neil" on the Scooterist BBS, March '98
sum days yoiu ryde, sum days yoiu cut enngilsh class.
"axmay" on the Scooterist BBS, March '98. (This "axmay" is not not me.)
"Some days you ride, some days you run out of gas."
Thanks, "Shane 14 USA," March 1998.
"…keep in mind that a swift kick to the choke lever is the surest way to get out tension, and put you well on your way to purchasing a new choke lever."
the philosophy of Mike H., a Lambretta TV175 owner. Thanks, Mike. Dec 1997.
"I smoke two-stroke"
Eric O., 12/97. If you ride a scoot, it's likely true for you, too.
"Off the head, off the head, we are the famous Reading Offbeats and we are off the f***ing head!!!"
Andy from Reading, England. 11/97. Scooter Clubs keeping the singing loud, eh, Andy? Thanks for the email.
"Put something exciting between your legs: a Lambretta!"
Jose Luiz, Brazil, 11/97, age unknown, but I am curious.
"Some days you ride, some days you hide."
Jim Stuart, USA, 11/97
"Some days you ride, Sundays you wash and wax."
John Limcangco, Manila, Philippines, 11/97
"Some days you push, most of them actually."
Niclas Ullström, Sweden, 9/97
"Some days you ride, just some..."
Niclas Ullström, Sweden, 9/97
"I have never seen so many scooters. Brands I had never heard of. Drivers of every age. Thousands, like a giant school of minnows, darting around everywhere."
Jeff, on the scooter view in Taiwan 8/97
or "Some days you ride your mum's bike"
and on a slightly different angle: "Riding a Lambretta is an act of faith."
"Some days you ride, some days you wish your hobby was collecting postcards."
"Some days you push, some more days you push."
M. Swift, Butler, PA
…and from the angst-ridden, we have the bleak and existentialist…
Jordi, Barcelona, Spain
"Some days you ride, some days you ride."
Alberto, Segovia Spain
"Some days you ride, some days you buy pieces."
Alberto, Segovia Spain
"Some days you ride, some days you push."
Max, Boston USA
The Scooter Poems.
"Monkeyboy" started it on the Scooterist BBS with this paean to a morning ride.
In the quiet light of morning
in the cool of the carport
you feel my booted heel
it kicks you awake
under the indifferent light
of a pale ale sun
just long enough
your rack of chrome antlers
and await the rushing wind
a blue cloud your only legacy
-"MONKEYBOY" March 1998
"Here's a haiku I just wrote about my Vespa."
Cold Italian Steel
Roars to life with a push start
Change the condensor.
-Johnathan, March 1998
This stupid fuel tap
Damn, just spilled my Guinness
-Jay, March 1998
i gotta vespa
goes real fast
'cept on the freeway
keeps getting passed
-Neil, March 1998
In praise of the Italian lines…
Lammys are both clean and warm
And Vespas - far above the norm.
Full of style, quickly started
Makes all Cushmans look retarded.
-"Pre-mixed poetry", March 1998
…and a self-promoting (or homage?) limerick:
There once was a Vespa so cool
That its owner would act like a fool.
With Malossi kit,
He was faster than shit,
But not half as fast as The Tool(TM)!
-"Puddin' Tame" March 1998
…and this beautiful free-form on scooter ressurection:
how long I have sat
stripped and eager
in moist dimness
the winter rain my only companion
it sings down the drainpipe
my west coast requiem
a bitter pill on winters longest day
a hymn for spiders
steel bubbles under chrome
tires sag like hanged men
and the sediment of time
In bleak solitude I wait
quiet as cancer
still as a timid stepchild
a tiny spark my greatest gift
- "Monkeyboy" March 1998
Uh-oh, it seized.
-"Puddin' Tame" March 1998
…and a reflection on grammar and scooterist morality:
If I should see
one more thread without
uppercase letters at
my heart will sink
like a Heinkel on a
Illiterate scooter brethren
who cannot tell the difference
between "to" and "too"
but still know
how to charge me
$175 for a VNA speedo
Answers escape me
like blue, acrid exhaust
Say what, yeah.
"Lord Snot" March 1998
Puff of grey
Rising thin as wheat
into the cold London sky
The lonely pilot
The eager pillion
We shiver and scheme
Say nothing and smile
and pretend we are fine
But always wonder...
MONKEYBOY, May 1998
From "Puddin' Tame", maybe May, 1998, "Poetry For A Scooter Rally"
Scoot alone or scoot with group
Play ring-toss with Hula-Hoop.
Mix your fuel, top up tires
Drive it through campsite bonfires.
Comb down hair and zip up parka
Fill Malossi with Binaca.
Lubricate, if you are able
Self with keg, then speedo cable.
Drive off wall then fall on tush,
Today you ride - tomorrow, push.
Puddin' Tame, July 1998.
Lambrettas are my fav'rite scoot
"Why", you ask? The point is moot.
Fast as hell & nicely polished
Low in price (if it's demolished)
Puddin' Tame, July 1998.
Vespas are okay, I guess
But cowls are almost always messed
Do all Vespisti drive like rabbit?
Falling off must be a habit
This was not written as a poem, but appeared one day in July 1998 on the Scooterist BBS. What motivated this person? We may never know. But damn, it is beautiful, in the same way a sunset is improved by smog. The fact that this person is " an observer and consultant, by trade " is not a little bit chilling.
I am an observer and a consultant, by trade. I have cautiously surveyed the biosphere or cult that surrounds a participant to this environment, called Scooterism.
You don't hold one leader, or follow a extended family..
As individuals, you beat a different drum and make your own paths, but like water, when you conjugate you go around small obstacles and over larger ones. When thing are calm you go your separate ways.
You hold on to the Old World ways, that are tried and true, but you are open-minded enough to try something new.
Shaved heads, goatee, tattoo, or priestly collar around your neck. Torn shirt and no pants, but a skirt around your waist. You can be 13 to 82, black, blue or purple, it makes no different what color your Scoot is, even if you don't have one....
Scooterism., is so diverse, it cannot be categorized, it is a new species of individuality..
That's My Two Cents, Live With IT!!
S. P. Keese
This anonymous submission was posted in response to a joke about the Pope. It tickled me so much I had to add it here.
How to make a Pope hat:
- Take two Lammy GP200 side panels and weld 'em together.
- Put on head.
- Go directly to hell for being a) a blaspheme, and b) welding two perfectly good Lammy side panels together.
This "poem" (?) came to me by email from "SkidMarxst". I thought it had a little bit of the Beat Generation feel to it.
bad news in shoes brother on Vespbretta(now what the fuck is a Vesbretta)
carrion picked over frames sued by State
In January, 1999, someone named DLB posted the very simple question, "Do you want to sell a moped". The irrepressible Puddin' Tame replied...
Do you want to sell a moped
Do you want to make some dough
I need a bike with pedals
'Cause my Lammie's freakin' SLOW!
That got a response from Stanley...
I use to dress like my sister
I use to look real keen
I use to ride on my scooter
until the rockers got too mean
Which further inspired Puddin' Tame...
ODE TO STASHU, THE FORMER SCOOTERIST
Stanley looked too "girly"
With Mod-ish locks and pout
Until the Rockers came to call
And knocked his earrings out
He's given up on scooters
And dressing as he pleased
Because he couldn't handle
Getting mercilessly teased.
And Stanley took us out with this collapse of creation...
There once was boy named Stanley
who shaved his armpits clean
He rode all day on his Honda
while his ass leaked of vasolean [sic and sick, both]
Puddin' Tame gave us this ode, sung to the tune of "Go, Speed Racer!" January 1999.
Here it comes, here comes my Prima
It's Italian; it's steel
It's a smallframe and it's gonna be rippin' up the highway.
You'll hear it comin' 'cause it's got a Go-Fast pipe
With Ulma crashbars it'll look so freakin' NICE!
And when the chicks all dig it there'll be
Lots of waffles, too
It handles better than my
Screw the Lammies!
Go my Prima, go!
Monkey Boy, in response to the declaration of Denver thefts posted in late winter 1999 on the BBS, gave us:
Scooter thief, panting bastard meat eater, unwashed raptor Into my den you creep, like old velvet in a damp room slave to your appetite, minion to your cowardice...you seek what is not yours. Pig-dog-reptile. Member of a club that will not have you Poor cousin, Sad lackey, Out you slink, silently pushing, Secretly scheming phoning for parts Breaker of hearts. A pox on you, you turd colored dog... I will find you, and you wont even see it coming. MoNkEyBoY
I REALLY LIKE SCOOTERS
I like scooters. They are fun.
It's like you are going fast, but not really.
Italians have scooters. I like Italians. They have style.
One day I will have style, but until then, I want another scooter.
People smile when they see them.
Although some people laugh. I laugh at them.
They dont get it but I do.
I am going to ride one right now- because it's sunny and I like riding by
Sometimes I pretend I am Jimmy from Quadrophenia, exceept not really.
I like being me better, because he only got to be him for 105 minutes.
But I can be me forever.
April 1999 brings us this pair of stanzas from "song". Who among us can't relate to those scootery thoughts which occupy us while we're doing things other than either riding or prepping the ride. Thanks, sam.
scooters in the place that i work. think about compression wonder why you dont have any sams in the place where she works think about orders wonder why she taped her own hand bored
October 1999 is the season of the European Motorcycle Day at Larz Anderson Park in Brookline, Massachusetts, and Puddin' Tame starts us off with...
Wash yer scoot and get it waxed
Then find directions you were faxed.
Point yerself t'wards Brookline town
And hope the damn thing don't break down.
Pay yer fee and park it smartly,
On the grass, or pavement (partly).
Ask around for single chicks
Who'll take a ride with you "for kicks".
Meet others of the scooter ilk,
Then tell them "Hey! Your scoot drinks milk!"
And then, when you win seventh place,
Scoot back on home with egg on face.
To which "Allen Ginsburg" (johnnyfez) replies...
I've Seen the great scooters of my generation-
awash in a sea of animal sick
carburated in an asthamatics gasp for breath
and muted by chum-filled mufflers only a mother's ear could discern.
Scratching, crawling, and flatulent-
calling my name in the dusk...FLOYD!!!
Which prompts "epskalaw" to give us "A Tale of Two-Stroke"
A Tale of Two-Stroke
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of Vespas, it was the age of Lambrettas, it was the epoch of
mods, it was the epoch of rockers, it was the season of Fog-Lights, it was the season of bad electrics, it was the spring of new scoots, it was the winter of total restoration, we had the road before us, we had the cops before us, we were all going direct to LA, we were all
going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on
expansion chambers and Malossi mods, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Which prompts "toddimac" to give us this excerpt from the Scooterbury Tales...
Whan that April with his two stroketh,
The Carb of March choketh on the smoketh.
And bathed ev'ry Scoot with frothy brew
Of which virtue was known by few
And specially, from ev'ry shire's ende,
Of Genoa, to Scooterbury they wende.
Then "mimsyscoot" wrote to tell me her friend Hillary added a few lines... (this in February '02)
..Scooterbury Tales continued...
The holy blissfull scooter for to seke
That hath carried them away
bordom to forsake
November 1999. Sometimes you have to fight with an old, siezed scooter engine. Jay was doing that, drilling out the piston crown to try to get the barrel away from the engine, when he came to the make-or-break point. He made this poetic deal with himself:
This Allstate engine? Piece of shit!
I've wasted too much time on it.
Before I throw this under bus
A wise man once said to me, thus:
"The best peformance part to get?
A P2 mill's your surest bet!"
I'll in-vest one more hour drillin'
With Bass close by in fridge a-chillin'
If barrel fails to come free,
Your P2 engine, send to me.
William Scootspeare replied:
With compelling rhyming verse
about your Allstate engine curse
you with yourself have struck a deal
about how much further effort will
be applied to the siezed-part puzzle
of splitting the motor whilst Bass you guzzle.
A classic dilemma of fix or replace:
is it under the bus, the engine case?
or did the bastard finally come free,
will that barrel now get be
a part of an engine's healthy humming?
Is its salvation what next is coming?
Let us know how it got settled,
this question of old/new metal.
Did the barrel fail to come free?
is it a P2 engine that we will see?
Ah, the battle! The hangover's acuter!
All this for the love of the motor scooter.
and if there is any RoOm left doSum More...ride them scoots hard, enjoy the Moment and enjoy , That’s all that matters .Not is my rubber Mat the right 1 for a 63 ..Enjoy the fun of screaming down the street on a scoot 2stoke, smell the smell that we all love and know so well … Just go and do the do. Have a laff before u b-Cum 2 Old 2 Know wot a laff is !?.. GoDo iT and we will always push the Lammy boys ..when they wont Start!
RIDE em NotTALK em ToDEATH..
TheBriTs…… a couple of 32oz’s down the road
Then came Christmas, 2000.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the garage
Not a creature was stirring, or maybe it was a mirage;
The wrenches were hung over the toolbench with care,
In hopes that my !@$%* SIP order soon would be there;
The mods were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of chrome accessories danced in their heads;
And Scooter MD's big hammer and Colin's sales rap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the computer to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
To view Tom, a bucket of KFC and a side of mash.
He chewed on a breast in new-fallen snow
And wondered what was happening on the BBS and the
MIke and Miller show,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a couple of Brits with a case full of beer,
Pyramid schemers were chased away so quick,
I knew in a moment had arrived Mike Frankovic.
More rapid than eagles more BBS-ers came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;
"Now, FRANCIOS! now, SCOTT now, BRIAN HOLM and GLEN!
On, PETE on CHAS , on MAXO and ERIC ESSEN!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Party down! Get Funky! White Russians for all!"
With the Denver Love like the wild hurricane fly,
Arrived like the wind was Pamela and Sky
So up to the house-top Michael McWilliams flew,
With the PeakSC Jarrod, Molly, and Budinski too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard more partying on the roof
It was wild man Mikee T., that little goof.
Racing and chasing the Filipinos around,
Down the chimney came Jake with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
Was Trapper Jim and his groovy scoot;
It was a pint of beer that Steve Sheely threw back,
While Frank finished off the rest of the 6-pack
With scooters that were modified and some that were stock
Everyone was searching for goodies to fill up some socks
Small things like seals and gasket set
to full blown restores and powerful kits
Some were astonishment and while others surmise,
Meanwhile came giggles from the Scooterworks guys;
The spirit of holidays and scooters all went their head,
While the morning would bring a hang-over to dread;
And here come more scooter clubs like Second to Last
Hell's Belles from the Northwest with tales of rallies past
The Regulars from Minnesota and the Jedi Knights, too
Some many to list, what can I do.
Dressed all in their leathers from their head to their foot
With stains of oil and gas, and from their exhaust, some soot
We want to spread happiness and helmet hair
Good riding experiences and things to share
Tanja on her 210 and Mike on his 75cc scoot
Raced all around giving their horns a toot
You could hear them exclaim as they rode out of sight
"HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!"
'Twas the night before
Xmas and all through the
Santa was busy, with a
motor to drop.
The plugs were all fouled,
the oil was dark
the black box was faulty and
there was no spark.
With reindeers on strike
and the elves really pissed
he had to get rolling, or the
nights deadline missed.
He rolled up his sleeves
and pulled out the Haynes,
he opened a Guinness to
loosen his brains.
He rebuilt the carb and he
Dremeled the head
but nothing would help, the
bitch was still dead.
And just as the old man
was starting to rave,
rose the ghost of Piaggio
back from the grave.
Check stator check
plugwire check killswitch,
it's not rocket science if you
Santa thought "man, is this
some kind of joke?"
But he stood on the
kickstart and then there was
He loaded the presents on
front rear and back,
he put on his Perry and
Martins and Mac.
He finished his run by the
first light of dawn
and stopped off at Honda to
shit on their lawn
so come Xmas morning ,
and this is no joke,
if you open your window,
you just might smell
Merry Christmas to all from
Tom, in January of '01, sent this hopeful message about spring.
Here I sit, watching the rain
Thoughts of scooters in my brain
Why's the weather got to be so bad
Not riding my scooter, that makes me mad
Winter winter, won't you go away
So my scooter I can take out and play?
But winter's here, and here to stay
Too much rain and snow to play
The weather's icky, and cold and drab
So on the bbs I'll have to gab
With thoughts of rallies and races and fun
All around the town my scooter will run
To work, to school to play and to shop
My precious scooter I vow not to drop
But for now it seems the rain will stay
Oh winter, winter, please go AWAY!
Harken spring, and summer, then fall...
me an' my scootie will have a ball !
But then again, another winter; it's unjust.
No scooting, just cold, and rain and rust.
So if MY needs were the reason....
We'd have just ONE long riding season !
To hell with winter, and rain and snow...
year-round scooting I would go.
Then scootist and rhymer Jay H. added to his springtime collection with this beauty amonth later, February '01.
Dripping on me puddin' bowl
The ice is falling 'stead of snow
Me scoot awaits the plows 'n trucks
To salt the road, then we's in lucks
We'll venture off, me scoot & I
Upon the pavement newly-dry
An' gather up the local masses
With metal scooters 'neath their asses
Then point ourselves ouside of town
Whilst dodging snowbanks dirty brown
We'll have some races, kicks & larfs
Then pour some pints 'til Billy barfs
Warmin' up this week, me hopes
Should cure the scooter-ownin' mopes
Another one by Tom (Pennington?) from the last day of February, 2001. Thanks Eric E., for sending it to me!
You say you want em cheap
You say the price too steep
But that's the price you'll have to pay
If indeed, you wanna play
Their price too high, you will not pay
Looked all day yesterday, and again today
On the net you will not find
The special deal you have in mind.
Your freebie scoot, it'll probably wait
Unfound afar in some other state
In spite of your search, you haven't found it yet
Indeed an import is your best bet.
With PK's and PX's and T-5's
Pirate Imports has what you need to survive
But even closer, have you checked yet?
Scooterworks might be a better bet.
They've Et3 and Rally and Even a P
They've got your scoot, just go and see.
Sure it's expensive, the cost may be great
But how expensive a project, how full is your slate?
As so many have seen, and alot expound
Projects are expensive, even if cheaply found.
So check your importers, and you'll surely agree
The cost is less expensive, even if your project was FREE
Thanks, Eric E. and MoNkEyBoY for sharing this interesting post-and-response from April '01.
Have you ever tried Captain Morgans spiced rum? It tastes better than any alcohol should. Mix it with orange juice and you have a complete breakfast. After killing a small bottle of this magyk (I'm spelling it the wiccan way to emphasise the spiritual nature of my affection) elixir, I booted up my computer to check out the new Honda f4i, shich I have been secretly lusting after for quite some time. I love all the crazy shit you can get...leathers, carbon exhausts, helmets that cost as much as a p-200, spine protectors, all kinds of shite that fools you into thinking that the road you are on is something other than a byway you share with retarded, inecisive drivers. I'm currently all over that speed stuff. My browsing was interrupted by the buzzer on my dryer going off. I headed for the basement to fold some clothes and as I walked past my scooter, I heard a sound. I swear I heard it say "Bitch". I stopped, considered the possibility that Captain Morgan was behind all this, and proceeded towards the dryer. As I started to fold my clothes, I glanced over and noticed that there was a small stream of gas trickling from underneath the body. with a final grunt, one last squirt shot out, followed by a sound that I can only describe as muffled laughter. Now I was getting freaked out...was I hammered? had I inadvertantly sucumbed to fumes? Was that advil I had taken actually the hit of E I had squirreled away? I decided to sit on the scooter and think it through. As I did, the scooter spoke "step off, bitch...punk ass bitch...street bike leather wearin meat eatin wanker". I was aghast...how did it know? How could this be real? I fell banging my head on the wall where my parka hangs. I felt sparkly feeling you get before the pain hits...that fat feeling that leaves you wondering if all this is really happening. During those few seconds I heard an hours worth of mockery...monkey humping a football...epithets not worth repeating, insults of the worst kind, it was a nightmare..and all this coming from the thing I had polished, accessorised, and worshipped. My guilt was immediate and profound. I could do nothing but hang my head. Thats the thing you see...they know...they always know...they can smell it on you. Thats why it's not worth it...it's bad odds. Now I've learned...it's out of my system. And if I ever get the urge, I just buy a magazine and go into the can and read it...quietly. Because they know....they really do.
Eric E. replied
I was stumbling back to theliqour store (convienently accross the street) for the second time this evening (It's been two years, and the bastard still cards me) As I passed the old lady (a '76 rally200), she began her usual bichting.
"You never Change my oil"
"What are you talking about, I did that 3,000 miles ago, change it yourself if you got a problem"
"I'm popping out of 2nd and 3rd, and you run me on that $5 a gallon oil you get at the autparts store"
"shifting crosses are expensive, something like $20, I work my ass off all day long everyday, all you do is sit outside my work basking in the sun all day, and don't bitch about oil, you see me drinking GUiness?? no, It's those damn $1.29 32oz of Shlitz for me to."
"And all you do is talk about your 90ss, how do you think that makes me feel?"
"Fat? It's not my fault she's skinnier then you."
"That's it I'm leaving you"
"Yeah whatever, you've got somany miles on you, know man in their right mind would touch you, plust I've got 3 smallframes lined up to replace you anyways."
I walked on accross the street, and thought to myself, Damn I love the old lady, she might smoke, foul plugs, pop out of gear, but she's damn reliable, and not a half bad ride... On my way back w/ my brown bag, I patted her on the headset and promised to by her a new spark plug before we leave for Santa Barbara on Sunday.
Stickin' it to H-D in May of 2001, we have this simple poem from Edward L.
Made of Tin
Ride em out
And Push em in
This is from the London Vikings Scooter Club, with the note: "It was a 1% biker poem (with no dis respect intended to any of them). but I think it's just as appropiate for "certain" scooterists and S.clubs." July '01.
Just let me ride my scoot
John Q. can drive his car
Don't tell me how wrong I am
Ask yourself how right you are
let me be what I want to be
Let me live the life I choose
Don't tell me before the cards are dealt
Who's gonna win or lose
Everything you can only dream of doin' or bein'
I've already done or been
Everything you want to be
I already am
Some say my days are numbered
That my kind will soon be gone
Though there may be a few less of us
Those left are twice as strong
Maybe I'm not quite as rowdy
Or it takes more to over-amp
There again - I'm a little older and wiser now
But I'll always be the same ole-
Pill Poppin’, Dope Smokin’,
Pussy Eatin’, Mother Fuckin’,
Outlaw Brother - Scooter Tramp.
This one is called goddamnit don't sit on my scooter and it was posted to the BBS by netweasel in early February, 2002. All of us who own scoots can relate to the anger inspired by people who think that because they're rare and small and "heck my neighbor stole one of these back in '64" people treat them as if they were public property. Netweasel sets them straight.
You fucking druggy whitebelt.
Why do you think you can sit on any scooter?
Do you think you have a some god given right,
Because you have a whitebelt hanging above your pooter?
You would think by now you should know,
by doing this what you will get.
A fucking crazy sonofabitch mad,
and a wallop upside the head.
You look like a long haired Chachi,
and your BO smells like feta.
Oh you dirty mutherfucker,
DON'T EVEN try doing this on my Lambretta.
There are only 2 things I don't mind who try to sit on my scooter,
That is little kids and big boobies.
Little kids don't know any better,
and damn they better be big boobies.
And if those boobies aren't big enough,
You better be a good looker.
And NO you dirty toothless whore,
I don't give rides to hookers.
Now lets get back to the boobies & scooters,
As I was starting to say.
So exactly how big are your boobies?
On any given day.
Now back to those fucking cock-knockers,
you dirty stinking fucking loser.
You know I am going to break a bottle over your head,
SO DON'T SIT ON MY FUCKING SCOOTER!!
This poem came by email tonight, December 3, 2005, from a guy who called himself Paul Ruby. I repectfully thank him for his work.
1984 Honda Elite Scooter, 12K miles, $750, 769-3329, Bellefonte
Let me tell you about it.
It starts easy
with a little electric motor
attached to the side of a big one.
Kind of like those icky fish that stick
to the side of the big shark in the pulsing
It used to make me so happy
waiting for my stuff to dry,
in front of Splish Splash Laundromat.
And even though I only like the Pina Colada song a little
I dreamed I made whoopee on it
in the dunes of the Cape.
Go ahead, sit on it.
You’ll think you’re in Paris
or India with the monkeys
like in that Allen Ginsburg photo.
Girls will wave
as you drive by.
Forget about a Corvette
that only attracts other guys.
You need this Scooter!
Take it for a spin put on
Your breath fogs the visor
and mixes with my smells
of garlic, dirty hair and extra virgin olive oil
in a squishy corner of your mind.
Now we are close. It’s the smells of our
fore fathers, their fathers and that fellow in the
Raphael painting riding the stinky pony
on the Apian Way.
This scooter is your ticket to ride.
Okay, so it won't start.
Help me bounce it up and down real hard
to knock some American sense into it.
Notice how the tires leave the ground
coins and tools fly
out of the glove box and bounce
under my ex’s burgundy Camry.
That’s her watching us through the laundromat
window. The steamy window our lives.
This poem, like so many before, comes from the International Scooterist BBS. A thread began about laws concerning the legality of carrying donkeys on scooters in the U.S. Kyle was inspired:
Should one burden a Bajaj with a Burro?
Should you carry a donkey like they do in Sri Lanki?
Or leave him to plow out the furrow.
Would it be fair?
Should anyone care?
If you should be seen by some shapely lass,
while riding your scooter and bearing your ass.
Would having him straddle,
the front half of your saddle,
be considered rude.... or just crass?
That burro pulled hard for you.
So give him his due.
Just be a good fella.
Throw your ass on a Stella.
and tell the cops to just let you through.
This poem, yet again, comes from the International Scooterist BBS. A thread began about photos from the European Lambretta meet in June of '06 becuse of what seemed like a lot of pictures of people fixing, rather than riding, Lammies...
A poem by Rik, the People's Poet (R) (TM)
Could they have made you betta?
Always needing an adjustment!
Turning screws, and other fussment!
To a rally, with Servetta?
Other People's Scooters
Quotations and Poems about Scooters
Scooter and Odd Car Organizations
Help in finding scooters and parts
Send Max email