Necks turn red in the bright August sun,
  and the bullshit starts flying before it’s begun.
Drivers wrench on cars with their pit crew buds
  as girls chat and watch in lovely tats and studs.

Tools are shared between fellow derby hands
  as I savor the sights and relish in their plans.
Secrets are passed from one generation to the next;
  too bad in a few hours, they’ll have nothing but wrecks.

Curious fans take in the macabre projects
  as officials crawl under to confirm the specs.
Thousands of ways to get hurt in this place;
  if nothing bad happens, it’ll be a miracle of grace.

The predeath beauty of our demo sedan
  is appreciated immensely by the entire pit clan.
This is the day my love affair began,
  the afternoon I became a demo-pit fan.

The derby starts with stock sedans, in glorious wreckage;
  from our spot in the pits there’s a view of the carnage.
Crash, crumple, BOOM! The crew shuts up to take a look.
It’s a scene of mayhem, like an apocalyptic book.