Saturday Qualifying

Sir Stewart smiled,

the knight's many chequered flags

spark the V8 that

powers his young eyes,

wrapped in a magic weave

of proud Scottish sunshine.
 

Schumi did part his lips too,

so did Vettel and the young-uns,
at posers with magic drumsticks

and jokers with rusty, septic swords.
 

... It gave them orgasms!
Hell yeah, it did...
 

While o'er the counter quotes
eased the pain in their lower gut from
paraphrasing the one-and-a-half minute long
lap dances, the misery and mystery of it all.
And the tycoon chose to eat while
they blew his trumpet.
 

Night, the city lit up with
headlamps rushing home.
The delivery boys readied
a rich spread on the dinner table.
A li'l more than four hundred
words got laid on the front page
for the pleasure of millions.
Out came whorish squeals on Facebook;
from the dark lanes

it made its way to the pit-lane

and the paddock behind.

Three days of timeout
from rum n coke in a tainted glass,
to champagne in a circus flute.
 

Then there were rumours

of multiple pleasure,

beside the pit-lane exit,

in sync with the downshifts

into the opening corner.

More a sigh than a cry,

from an Italian lady in red;

as she climbed towards newer
heights of ecstasy, beyond the second corner;

round n round, hips and laps.
 

They all qualified for

a Sunday party,

while I made the grid for a hike,
after a Saturday high!

(I was also present at the Buddh International Circuit in Greater Noida for the inaugural F1 Indian GP. Yeah, the ‘mystery and misery of it all’...)