Page 20 - eMuse Vol.9 No.02_Classical

Bob’s walls hold no diplomas, no degrees to quote or call
But as high priest in the school of life Bob Jane has done it all
And stacked amongst his treasures where his racing gear is stored
Are the writings of his idol, motor magnate, Henry Ford.
Life’s a never ending story for this man of many faces
Carved a dynasty down under out of tyres, wheels and races,
From “grease monkey” to “Grand Marshall” built his blue and
yellow chain,
Now number one across the nation, T Marts “kill” for Bob ‘F’ Jane.
‘Cause the “T Mart’s” creed is built on speed and the ribs of the
racing track
On the shouldered turns where the octane burns through our cit-
ies and outback,
Where the Nascar’s law and the Auscars roar and the dragsters
scorch and flame,
By the great “all rounder” sportsman founder “T Mart’s Bob ‘F’ Jane”.
Now the crowds have emptied Calder Park, they’re navigating home,
A lone man walks in darkness by its awesome Thunderdome,
T Mart’s Bob ‘F’ Jane He talks to the future and asks “What’s next?” as lightning lights
the track,
And on the inside lane to Bob ‘F’ Jane, his Henry answers back.
The bitumen’s near smelting in the Melbourne heat it’s melting
To the insults course and pelting from the red ford in the lane,
Beside the glistening luxury car ...”Bloody mug lair, y’aare!!”
Now they’re tailgating the jaguar ... of the legendary Bob Jane.
And the gritty racing driver stops his limmo at the lights
And adjusts his rear view mirror down like telescopic sights,
The louts are cracking mental with upstretched “vees” and curse
To aggravate the legend with vulgar threats and worse.
The tycoon flips her forward for momentum, torque and thrust
Then hits REVERSE and plants her and converts the ford to rust
And the faces in its cockpit locked in horror, shock and strain
Regret their first encounter with “T Mart’s” Bob ‘F’ Jane”.
Bob had learnt to lash in Brunswick where he lingered as a boy, The Ballad Of Pancho Adair
Leaves school at thirteen, hits the road to groom the boss’s toy,
Pumps the grease then makes mechanic when he hears the circle The oil rig’s ablaze… smoke and flame owns the air,
ring, Impassioned… the call is re-echoed… for Red… Red Adair,
His other home, the Velodrome, a two wheeled cycling king. But Red’s just too expensive… he’s tops… but too dear,
He makes covers for selected seats then buys old Southern Motors, He’s charged us a mill plus… to plug one… last year.
In fifty-six “the Customline” ‘kick starts’ his racing photos, Try his Mexican cousin… Wahn Pancho Adair.
Soon his multi national stable booms the drums of victory
For he’d seen “the Boss” young Stirling Moss, just blitz the world’s “Hey Pancho… in dollars… or pesos… how much do you charge?
Grand Prix. To extinguish a fire… in an oil rig… that’s large?”
Domineering, engineering, seems he doesn’t give a stuff, “Hey… don’ta worry about Red… he’s red hot… and shifty,
A diamond in the uncut form “kicks ass” and cuts up rough Pancho will do it… for forty eight dollars fifty”.
But when the track looms worse for wear with oil spills, fear and pain, Well they watched as Pancho’s Red Fire Truck arrived,
Accelerate... you’ve got a mate in “T Mart’s Bob ‘F’ Jane”. With its mariachi band aboard… as they rock, rolled, and jived.
The boardroom’s now a war zone where the tyre tiger stalks Forty Eight fearless fellows… fire fighting heroes… singing Mexican
And the networks ‘round the nation stop to listen when he talks, songs, and wearing Sombreros,
He’s an icon of world motorsport, he’s birthed the “T Mart” breed, They charged into the fire, in the red fire truck… bystanders ex-
And taught his team of “Marters” not to follow but to lead. cused as they said “what the… heck?”,

Now all around our wide brown land the “T Mart” flag’s unfurling Through the flames comes a scream… like Japanese Zeros… ‘twas
South of Kosciusko’s snows due north where the fleets went pearling the beating of forty eight, half singed Sombreros,
Out west where the golden lode runs deep and waits for the With not a hint of a hose, or a tap or a spout,
miner’s claim Forty eight mighty Mexicans… had put the flames out.
Down the eastern spine they’re all on line for “T Mart’s Bob ‘F’ Jane”. “Hey Pancho… what you do with the Forty Eight and a half buck?”
He’s brought the magic to Australia of the formula one Grand Prix, “I theenk, that I feex up the breeks on de truck”.
Prost and Lauda and Laffite, Piquet for all to see,
Thirty million cubic metres, our world racing has a home
By his ‘great wall’ christened “Calder” and the thrill of Thunderdome.

20 eMuse February 2020