• Donald Healey's Dream

    Donald Healey's Dream
    A Poem By

    Take yourself back to 1952,
    See the cars from Detroit drive through Kalamazoo,
    When the Army no longer needed tanks by the scores,
    They put on rubber wheels and gave 'em four doors.
    But someone remembered what a sportscar could be,
    He'd been building roadsters since he turned twenty three,
    And across the Atlantic on the old British Isle,
    Donald Healey decided to build cars with style.

    He stayed up in his workshop far into the night,
    Kept true to his dream 'til he got it just right,
    Watched Abingdon craftsmen, like a father's first born,
    Roll out his creation to the sun one fine morn.

    With a chirp and a growl, then a rock steady whine,
    She gave driver, creator, a heavenly sign,
    But the devil's own blacksmith ran hot in her veins
    When the revs hit 5000 she tore at the reins.

    She screamed 'cross the salt on the Bonneville flat,
    Ran all night at Le Mans as quick as a cat.
    Sebring was her playground, the Alps were her throne,
    She was a blue blooded lady that was bad to the bone.

    The factory team went on a victory spree.
    They beat Jags and Porsches from Rome to Pari's,
    But what really caused Jaguar and Porsche to groan?
    For a few thousand bucks you could call her your own.

    In beer halls they praised the machine that he'd made,
    They laughed at the Germans and the prices they paid,
    They spoke of the thunder across Berkshire Downs,
    As the proud Austin Healeys paraded through town...
    --< * >--
    Now the years have passed by and the cars may demand,
    That we spend a few Saturdays, spanners in hand,
    Our knuckles get skinned and our patience may thin,
    But every son needs a story that his dad can tell him.

    Don't ask if it's practical, ask if it's fast,
    Don't ask if it's comfortable, ask how long it lasts,
    The lines of this beaut y will never be old,
    She's still racing for check points through mid-winters' cold.
    So the big auto makers are back in control,
    They're aerodynamic but where is their soul?
    They're high-tech and plastic and high mileage, too,
    They're "Job 1" and "Heartbeats" and "I love what you do".

    But she can still take us where few others can,
    Put fire in our hearts and a thrill in our hands,
    So keep the flag flyin', preserve that sweet roar,
    So that young folks remember what a sportscar is for.

    by DaVinci July-91
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