Flight of the 410

In the hush before the thunder roars,
The 410 waits on dirt-clad floors.
A beast of wings and steel-framed might,
Built for war, for speed, for flight.

Methanol breath and fire-born lungs,
Its engine chants in piston tongues.
A blur of chrome, a savage spark,
A hawk unleashed in the racing dark.

Tires claw the clay with violent grace,
Throwing dust like war paint on its face.
No mirrors here, just forward rage,
A gladiator in a wire-caged stage.

With each green flag, the world lets go—
Time bends beneath the chassis low.
It dances sideways, slides and dives,
Alive in turns where chaos thrives.

The driver grips through trembling force,
Hands and heart aligned with course.
In every lap, a risk embraced,
In every pass, the edge is chased.

No million-dollar showroom star,
No polished name in NASCAR’s jar—
But here, where sweat and gravel meet,
The 410’s soul is raw, complete.

So raise a cheer as engines scream,
For those who chase a dirt-track dream.
Where legends rise in fleeting light,
And sprint cars vanish into night.