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The meeting of the
"Downhill Gang" was top of Pekrul Hill,
And everyone was there with parts galore,
For they were building racing carts from planks and buggy
wheels,
To challenge us and settle untold scores.
The "Pekrul Boys"
had, up till then, been leaders of the pack,
Our downhill racers were the best in town,
And kids in every neighbourhood would try their luck to win,
But we would always, always beat them down.
Our father was
the best of fans and thought that he would help,
By building us the nicest cart around,
So, many days inside his shed with hammer, saw and bolts,
He built a cart from objects he had found.
A sawdust hopper
sat on front, another one on back,
To make a hood and matching metal trunk,
With silver paint and lightning bolts, it had a certain flair,
A limousine all made of bits of junk.
The day had come;
the "Downhill Gang" assembled for the race,
With carts of planks and buggy wheels and rope,
Our confidence was at a high; we'd not been beaten yet,
Another day of winning on the slope.
A voice cried
"Go", and we were off, with Pekruls in the lead,
Another easy win is what we thought,
But wait, what's that? - a cart came by and thought that
he would pass,
It looked as if our win would come to naught.
But while they
drove such simple carts of planks and wheels and rope,
We drove a cart much like a Sherman Tank,
And though it wasn't quick as theirs; (in fact it was quite
slow),
We'd win this race and take it to the bank.
As each and every
cart would pass we'd nudge them on the side,
And cause their baby buggy wheels to pitch,
And when they finally lost control we'd deal the final
blow,
And force their flimsy carts into the ditch.
I know it
wasn't proper, but we'd never lost a race,
To lose this one would really hurt our pride,
For there's a reason why this slope was known as Pekrul
Hill,
Because we always had the fastest ride.
Our poor
ol' Dad had worked so hard at building us a rod,
With love and sweat it really was the best,
But when it came to racing, it just didn't have the
speed,
And it would never, ever pass the test.
And so, back to
our Father's shed, we tore it all apart,
Right down to simple planks and wheels and rope,
Ball-bearing wheels were substituted for the ones we had,
So once again we'd rule the mighty slope.
And so again, the
race would start and once again we'd win,
But it would never, ever be the same,
For we had cheated that one time, instead of being sports,
And we would ever live with guilt and shame.
And then I think
of our dear Dad who gave us out of love,
And worked so hard to build a thing of pride,
And how we tore it all apart, not thinking how he felt,
And just so we could have a faster ride.
A lesson to be
learned and one that I will not forget,
As ev'ry day I wrestle with the past,
Deciding how to treat the ones who give me out of love,
And think of them instead of riding fast.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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