Somewhere in South Carolina near a dirt track there's a shrine Erected to the memory of a little 'ole friend of mine A natural born dirt dauber, car racing was his game He rolled 'ole number 7 Fireball was his name With the makings of a honker and a roll of bailing wire He tied his hopes together and just set them tracks on fire Three hundred fifty on the hood; a big 7 on each door In his heart a will to win and his right foot on the floor His motto was a simple one âStand on it and turn left. If someone's gonna beat you make him runâ All he knew was ???? and always lead the rest Fireball rolled a seven and he won. He took the world 600, the old Atlanta 5 Bristol, Richmond, Nashville, Daytona for the ride The hotdogs laid it on him. They'd draft, chart, and sweat. But Fireball rolled a seven, the kind that's hard to get. He had the pole at Darlington; he won it off the rail. And he run away at Charlotte, 600 miles of Hell. A slingshot sewed up Petty; he was out in front real fast. A checkered flag was in the bag; nobody would get past. He was flat out in that back shoot; only 3 laps from the start. When he saw a yellow bumper cross up and come apart. A rookie and a shaker, runnin' scared and lost it all. A hush fell on that crowd; number 7 took the wall. His old skidlid hangs in the hall, the little chargers gone, To save a friend he laid it on the line. His old poncho is rust and bound, but his memory still lives on. Fireball rolled a seven every time. Fireball rolled a seven every time. Bu döküman AkorMerkezi.com'da yayınlanmıştır. http://www.akormerkezi.com