Vale Dale Earnhardt Poem by Fatt Bob

Old Glory bends slowly in the breeze, stunned, aghast
Flutters gently, mourns silently at half-mast
Looks down upon Daytona's high, steep banks
Where Dale's world hurled by so fast
Until the Grim Reaper reached into the ranks
And claimed his life at the last.

How much more tragic could it be
That on the last turn of the last lap,
The final carnage of this race
Should claim an icon such as he?

A gentle man
Hewn from the toughest steel
Who made time for any auto racing fan

A proud man
Deserving of success behind his race car's steering wheel

A kind man
Whose sportsmanship was not just an ideal

A family man
Thoughtful, tolerant, and genteel.

Now he's shut his fist,
But no matter how sorely he'll be missed,
We must remember –

He died amid the fury and the sound
Of the race cars that he loved
Upon Daytona's hallowed ground.


Fatt Bob.