By CHRIS PONTING
The TTs (for short) are back on the track;
With Kev out the front, and two sweepers out back.
The blokes in the middle, partake and belong;
With fingers on the (E-bike) trigger, to help them along.
They happily chat along the way of their ride;
Especially when, they can go, side by side.
Master of Ceremony is Rollo the great;
He’s no cream puff you know, he’s everyone’s mate.
The riders of TT at Budds Beach they meet;
Crusty old blokes, dressed not very neat.
They arrive in their fluoros on bikes new and old;
And stand around listening, as stories are told.
There’s a mob around 20, and sometimes there’s more;
They head off around seven, along the Broadwater shore.
There’s names to remember, here we go, here’s a few: (whew!)
We’ve got six Johns at least, with Mal in the middle;
While Treasurer Kerry’s having a fiddle.
President John and Secretary Gary, it’s said;
will come along only, if they can get out of bed.
There’s two by Georges, plus Jamie the Gunn;
Plus ‘have a chat’ John, he’s lots of fun;
KPI king Paul, and Bazza the baker;
A happy chappy bloke, called Peter the painter.
Paul’s a young fella, I’m not sure of his gig;
But that full head of hair must be a wig.
The resident gardener, is Michael I think;
Don’t forget Michael, or I’ll be in the stink.
Derek aka Shultz, pulls a joke off the top of his head;
Two Henks, and Grant, who’s our mate from NZed.
There’s Greg the road warrior, and Keith the ex-copper;
Three Bruces and Sir Mike – get to the chopper!
Didn’t mention Hugh, or Dave who loves cruisin’;
Give Kevin another mention, cause he just hates losin’
Now speaking of riders who just like to fly;
There’s Ian ‘Brownie’ Brown, who’s partial to pie.
Chris is the new Guy, he’s fit and he’s fast;
But it’s not a bloody race; it’s ok to be last.
We’re Tortoises you idiot we’re steady and slow;
If you wanna wear lycra bugger off, off you go.
It’s breaky, tea and coffee, the destination’s ahead;
It’s fresh air and exercise, not the men’s shed.
We like to catch up and have a bloody good chat;
‘Bout the state of the nation and all of that.
To the blokes of TT who may I call, mate, or friend;
If you didn’t get a mention, it wasn’t meant to offend.
Just give me your name with something you’d like to be said
And I’ll add a versus quickly of the top of my head.
##
The TTs (for short) are back on the track;
With Kev out the front, and two sweepers out back.
The blokes in the middle, partake and belong;
With fingers on the (E-bike) trigger, to help them along.
They happily chat along the way of their ride;
Especially when, they can go, side by side.
Master of Ceremony is Rollo the great;
He’s no cream puff you know, he’s everyone’s mate.
The riders of TT at Budds Beach they meet;
Crusty old blokes, dressed not very neat.
They arrive in their fluoros on bikes new and old;
And stand around listening, as stories are told.
There’s a mob around 20, and sometimes there’s more;
They head off around seven, along the Broadwater shore.
There’s names to remember, here we go, here’s a few: (whew!)
We’ve got six Johns at least, with Mal in the middle;
While Treasurer Kerry’s having a fiddle.
President John and Secretary Gary, it’s said;
will come along only, if they can get out of bed.
There’s two by Georges, plus Jamie the Gunn;
Plus ‘have a chat’ John, he’s lots of fun;
KPI king Paul, and Bazza the baker;
A happy chappy bloke, called Peter the painter.
Paul’s a young fella, I’m not sure of his gig;
But that full head of hair must be a wig.
The resident gardener, is Michael I think;
Don’t forget Michael, or I’ll be in the stink.
Derek aka Shultz, pulls a joke off the top of his head;
Two Henks, and Grant, who’s our mate from NZed.
There’s Greg the road warrior, and Keith the ex-copper;
Three Bruces and Sir Mike – get to the chopper!
Didn’t mention Hugh, or Dave who loves cruisin’;
Give Kevin another mention, cause he just hates losin’
Now speaking of riders who just like to fly;
There’s Ian ‘Brownie’ Brown, who’s partial to pie.
Chris is the new Guy, he’s fit and he’s fast;
But it’s not a bloody race; it’s ok to be last.
We’re Tortoises you idiot we’re steady and slow;
If you wanna wear lycra bugger off, off you go.
It’s breaky, tea and coffee, the destination’s ahead;
It’s fresh air and exercise, not the men’s shed.
We like to catch up and have a bloody good chat;
‘Bout the state of the nation and all of that.
To the blokes of TT who may I call, mate, or friend;
If you didn’t get a mention, it wasn’t meant to offend.
Just give me your name with something you’d like to be said
And I’ll add a versus quickly of the top of my head.
##
