Brap-brap-brap in the distance,
something came alive,
brap-brap-brap in the distance,
three angles times five,
brap-brap-brap in the distance,
then a sharp bark -
so plays a restless foot,
a soul that wishes he could,
bury it to the floor -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap now closer,
he's idling his way forth,
brap-brap-brap now closer,
assuming his place – fourth,
brap-brap-brap now closer,
one among the rest -
the only rotary in his class,
twincharged and balls of brass,
the crowds hum "he's hardcore!" -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap, then howl,
and the crowds cheer,
brap-brap-brap, then howl,
already addled by beer,
brap-brap-brap, then howl,
louder than the others -
as two dozen prepare to race,
their worst nightmare to face,
what they've never seen before -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap turns to scream,
and the checkered flag waves,
brap-brap-brap turns to scream,
finally he gets what he craves,
brap-brap-brap turns to scream,
and all the tires leave marks -
black and yellow turns to blur,
cats for miles bristle their fur,
shaken by the blare to the core -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap becomes a song,
a symphony of shifts and pops,
brap-brap-brap becomes a song,
an artist unmolested by cops,
brap-brap-brap becomes a song,
he is free to play his piece -
and none can get past, hard they may try,
victory from his clutches never shall they pry,
even as it begins to pour -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap, a distant memory,
over and over the revs climb,
brap-brap-brap, a distant memory,
to not marvel would be a crime,
brap-brap-brap, a distant memory,
as the master works his instrument -
and his steed clings to the wet tarmac,
sliding and spitting flames out the back,
behind the number one they soar -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap without pause,
the pressure never relents,
brap-brap-brap without pause,
as the rival his position defends,
brap-brap-brap without pause,
by pushing ever harder -
and the traction has its limits, they both know,
the cars skid and squirm, and the turbos glow,
as he sweats from his every pore -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap near the redline,
so they enter the final straight,
brap-brap-brap near the redline,
there's no more time to hesitate,
brap-brap-brap near the redline,
pedal to the metal, let there be boost -
so slowly the black and yellow passes the red,
time stands still for them and their feet are lead,
the crowds gasp: "is it a draw?"
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap purrs the kitten,
and the turbos can despool,
brap-brap-brap purrs the kitten,
as he lets the engine cool,
brap-brap-brap purrs the kitten,
he gently parks with shaky hands -
he knows not and there is doubt,
even as the crowds begin to shout,
this has not happened before -
so spins the dorito, forevermore.
Brap-brap-brap falls silent,
he climbs out with pounding heart,
brap-brap-brap falls silent,
having had lost faith in his art,
brap-brap-brap falls silent,
dreading to know the truth -
and they stand there together, the two,
unsure whether they were slain or slew,
even as the people demand an encore,
and the dorito itches to spin, forevermore.
This odd little poem was inspired by someone I know, who is very passionate about Wankel engines. It was intended as a silly birthday gift for him, but wasn't received at all – neither in a good way, nor in an ill one, but simply ignored – and so it's going to have its place here amid my miscellanous works of dubious quality.
Personally, I am not a huge rotary enjoyer. I don't hate them, but they just don't resonate with me by their very nature. If there's anything I truly adore, it's large displacement, large cylinder count piston engines. Low-revving beasts with enough torque to slow down Earth's rotation. Whereas rotaries are generally devillish little screamers – buzzy, rev-happy, gutless things with massive per-liter peak outputs. So it's not exactly a match.
Just recently someone in my town had bought a tuner Mazda RX-8. A really nice, mint-looking car. A gorgeous sky-blue wrap with white Japanese characters on the rear quarters. A pretty tasteful wing on the back. And some other little details. I love the look of it. But when it drove past me near a local Tesco not that long ago, it sounded like pure, twelve times distilled disappointment to me. The exhaust system seemed reasonably judged, neither a straight pipe nor totally quiet, and the owner wasn't exactly hammering it, just driving normally, but... the character of the engine just made me sad.
It's quite subjective, yes, but as far as my tastes go, I genuinely prefer the sound of my rattly old Mitsubishi 3.2 diesel 4 cylinder to that 13B. It’s coarse and agricultural, yes, and I like that character. I genuinely enjoy the sound of old tractors with their big, low-output straight 6 diesels. And the 13B is the opposite, really. So smooth while revving, as to actually sound indistinct. More of a quivering hum or a vibrating drone, than a violent symphony of pulses.
Nevertheless, because of the person in question I have learned to appreciate Wankels for what they are as well. I don't hate them, they just aren't my thing. Not even those beastly custom 6 rotors you can see on the internet. However I can still get excited for them because of the passion of others – that sort of thing can be contagious. That's how this was written. As a matter of genuine passion inspired by someone else. I just suddenly had an idea and decided to start writing, because I loved what it represented. So here it is.
…and yes, I know the verse structure is really odd, but so are rotary engines, so I thought it would be fitting. I’m no poet, I suck at this art something fierce, this was just a silly idea I had, not to be taken seriously.