I Called Their Bluff

They said I was too old.
They said I wasn't slick enough.
They said I weighed too much.
I didn't agree, so I called their bluff.

I needed some work.
First I needed the right owner.
I needed lots of things changed.
The ’57 Ford would be the donor.

I came with a flathead.
It was cool, but had no power.
Backed up by a manual three speed.
Was thrown out by the bed of flowers.

People said I couldn't race.
I was already 30 years old.
Cars much newer being built.
Born in 1937 when I first sold.

Was stripped to bare metal
All my insides ripped out.
The ’57 Ford had a 312 V8
The transmission was strong and stout.

He even used the newer Ford frame.
The rear end came from it to.
I was now going to be fast.
It's about time, I feel I am due.

I was painted jet black.
With number 27 on the side.
My owner built me right.
I am going to be one cool ride.

There was a new highway being built.
They called it Interstate 85.
My first test runs were happening.
Police said there I could not drive. 

A track named Peachbowl Speedway.
Put Atlanta on the racing map.
Cars and drivers were famous there.
We went there for our first hot laps.

I ran like never before.
Held the corners, gripping tight.
The other cars were no match.
I could have stayed there all night. 

The paved track was cool.
But dirt was where it was at.
In May ’66 I won my first race.
In the winners circle I finally sat.

I raced against ’55 chevies.
I raced against ’60’s Fords.
I raced against all of them.
In 1966, the championship I scored.

They said I was too old.
They said I wasn't slick enough.
They said I weighed too much.
I didn't agree, so I called their bluff.

R. S. Morris