The Rally

My brothers gone to Dakar, no he has gone to Mali,
Where the hell is he, on this god damn rally.

He crossed the channel, and went to France,
Couldn’t speak the language, just took his chance.

High in the Pyrenees, a tyre blew, in the deepest snow,
He changed the wheel, then off again he’d go.

It was a long drive down to southern Spain,
There the sun was shining, and no sign of rain.

Then cross over into Africa, now this really is a race,
Some fast, some slow, they all go at their own pace.

There was some rest and relaxation, to the sky he took,
Beach flying in Rabat, soaring high, just to have a look.

Now in the Atlas Mountains, he’s gone and got the squits,
No toilet for a hundred miles, this place is just the pits.

The mountains took their toll, on one or more cars,
But next it’s the Sahara, sun, sand, camels, but no bars!

The sand gets everywhere, in places you don’t want it to,
Clogging up engines, making more work to do.

Next to Mauritania and through the mine fields he went,
Hoping to cross before nightfall, this was no place to pitch a tent.

Then Senegal he bribed the border guards, just to let him in,
Now through villages of happy smiling faces, to see who’d win.

War has broken out in Mali, so where to go who knows,
Gambia is now the finish line, so onto another ferry he goes.

The race is over, time to think of home, so back to UK he flew,
Landing at Gatwick, now on the last leg back to Crewe.

He finished the race, and lived the dream,
When difficulty was in the way, he went to the extreme!

(I wrote this during the time my brother was taking part in the Dakar Rally, each leg he did he sent home reports, and so this is how it happened, for real)