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22-11-2006, 06:22pm
The Hayabusa Club
It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Hayabusa Club.
They were long and wiry natives of the rugged country side,
And the bike was never mounted that the busa crew couldn't ride;
But their style of riding cycles was irregular and rash -
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on hayabusa’s that were muscular and strong,
Though their paint was quite unpolished and their ragged hair was long.
And they used to train those cycles carving corners in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Hayabusa Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a cycle club existed, called the Gay bow racing Team.
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little bikes that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Busa crew how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them - just to give their bikes a rub
Ere they started operations on the Hayabusa Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Busa crew got going it was time to clear the road;
And the race was so terrific that ere half the trip was gone
A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on.
For they harried one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the race was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the gay bow racers captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving rider - so the race was called a tie.
Then the leader of the Busa’s raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his Busa for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck a corner - missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
By the old Nepean River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Gay bow racers and the Busa crew lie here."
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the drongoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom country road;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying racers meet,
And the rattle of the valves, and the clash of knees and feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Hayabusa Club.
My Sincere apologies to Banjo Patterson
Bruce
N2O no laughing matter
It was somewhere up the country in a land of rock and scrub,
That they formed an institution called the Hayabusa Club.
They were long and wiry natives of the rugged country side,
And the bike was never mounted that the busa crew couldn't ride;
But their style of riding cycles was irregular and rash -
They had mighty little science, but a mighty lot of dash:
And they played on hayabusa’s that were muscular and strong,
Though their paint was quite unpolished and their ragged hair was long.
And they used to train those cycles carving corners in the scrub:
They were demons, were the members of the Hayabusa Club.
It was somewhere down the country, in a city's smoke and steam,
That a cycle club existed, called the Gay bow racing Team.
As a social institution 'twas a marvellous success,
For the members were distinguished by exclusiveness and dress.
They had natty little bikes that were nice, and smooth, and sleek,
For their cultivated owners only rode 'em once a week.
So they started up the country in pursuit of sport and fame,
For they meant to show the Busa crew how they ought to play the game;
And they took their valets with them - just to give their bikes a rub
Ere they started operations on the Hayabusa Club.
Now my readers can imagine how the contest ebbed and flowed,
When the Busa crew got going it was time to clear the road;
And the race was so terrific that ere half the trip was gone
A spectator's leg was broken - just from merely looking on.
For they harried one another till the plain was strewn with dead,
While the race was kept so even that they neither got ahead.
And the gay bow racers captain, when he tumbled off to die,
Was the last surviving rider - so the race was called a tie.
Then the leader of the Busa’s raised him slowly from the ground,
Though his wounds were mostly mortal, yet he fiercely gazed around;
There was no one to oppose him - all the rest were in a trance,
So he scrambled on his Busa for his last expiring chance,
For he meant to make an effort to get victory to his side;
So he struck a corner - missed it - then he tumbled off and died.
By the old Nepean River, where the breezes shake the grass,
There's a row of little gravestones that the stockmen never pass,
For they bear a crude inscription saying, "Stranger, drop a tear,
For the Gay bow racers and the Busa crew lie here."
And on misty moonlit evenings, while the drongoes howl around,
You can see their shadows flitting down that phantom country road;
You can hear the loud collisions as the flying racers meet,
And the rattle of the valves, and the clash of knees and feet,
Till the terrified spectator rides like blazes to the pub -
He's been haunted by the spectres of the Hayabusa Club.
My Sincere apologies to Banjo Patterson
Bruce
N2O no laughing matter
