Top Gear: the anthology of poetry

"A loud bang occurs.
The sound of laughter galore.
Burning caravan"

Nienke Venhuizen

Yesterday was National Poetry Day in the UK. On a whim, we decided to note this august occasion by asking the gathered readers of our Top Gear Facebook page to contribute their finest odes to our pokey little television programme.

And the muse is clearly strong with you all. Haikus, sonnets, limericks and doggerel abound over the following pages, where we have collated the very best. The current Poet Laureate is Carol Ann Duffy. She has some serious competition.

Please do add your own entries in the handy space below... 

How does one describe the show,
That most Americans, do not know?
The show of cars, of challenges, of men,
That takes place in the land of Great Britain?

There is no recipe, there is no way
To fully describe, the man James May.
Nor is there limit, to the time you must lend,
To view all the quarrels, of Richard Hammond.

And Jeremy Clarkson, what exactly is he?
A large man for sure, who thinks small cars are sweeeet.
This is the place, where no car can move slow,
In the hands of the Stig, whose name we don't know

Add it all, with a flick of over-steer,
And you've got yourself, the show called Top Gear.

Sean Etter

Testing the Veyron,
Oh no, a horrible curse!
Captain Slow driving.

Elvis Stoyanov

Clarkson and Hammond and May
All get to drive cars for a day
They turn and they burn
With not the slightest concern
For just what the others will say

Now Jeremy's always the fool
And Richard's too short to be cool
And as for James May
Well what can you say?
Was he even this dorky at school?

But now I must cease and desist
From adding insults to this list
Just one thing to say
If just for today
That Top gear is not to be missed.

Jonathan Shaw

A Fiat Panda.
Causing traffic on M1.
James May, Captain Slow.

Aaron Chados

Clarkson, Hammond, and even Mr. May,
Unlikely trio most would say.
One thing in common is but a dream,
To become the Stig, the ultimate racing machine.
They've ventured the world, had guests from afar,
Raced round the track, always raising the bar.
They've challenged each other with their pick of wheels,
Pulling pranks and tricks, so the lead they can steal.
There's been laughs, fights and tears even shed.
These three have gone where others dare tread.
They've hung on cliff's edge and battled the road.
The pro's and the con's of many cars they showed.
The entertainment they brought to this gear head was big,
And I, too, wish I was the Stig.

Melissa Mros

Some Say, He cant boil peas
Some Say, He's poisonous to trees
Some Say, He does his washing-up in bed
Some Say, He has a spare leg in his head
Some Say, He exercises on his roof
Some Say, He never was a youth
Some Say, He got arrested for assaulting the future
Some Say, He combs his hair with his computer
Some Say, He once fell up three hundred steps
Some Say, He has a phobia of films of Johnny Depp's
Some Say, He once ate a lion tracker
Some Say, He's Michael Schumacher
Some Say, He isn't and I agree
He can't be, 'cos it's ME!

Jed Baldwin

An Opel Cadet.
In a Botswana river.
He screams, "OLIVER!"

Aaron Chados

A haiku for cars.
Want to arrive there quickly?
Do not let May drive.

Wojciech Budzyla

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Is Michael Schumacher
really the Stig?
Mien Gott, Top Gear
I love you!!!

Ligeia Suena 

Porsche 911 GT3 RS
Now that's poetry ^^

Toby Ullman

Reliant Robin
Best British car ever built
Naff off Jeremy

Neil Gerace

A loud bang occurs
the sound of laughter galore
burning caravan

Nienke Venhuizen

Hammond, Clarkson, May,
with Stig, reasonably priced.
How hard can it be?

Lee Haynes

The ride was quite hard
I knew this could only mean
Nürburgring version.

Mike O'Connor

There once was a man called Stig
He wore neither hat nor wig
Only a white helmet to hide
His face and a smile so wide
As he powered through the corner
His foot down on the break
The tires squealed and left a great streak
He never ground a gear or stalled out
And his great mystery left all the girls in a pout

Hammond, Clarkson, and May
He would drive loops around them all day
They could be in McLauren, Bugatti, or Lambo
There was no chance of ever catching this driving Rambo
He words were few; he did not need to speak
But when he drove by, people did stop
To have a look, many a jaw would drop
Leaving people to ponder,
Who the hell is this tame racing driver?

Ali Sips

No TV at home
Watching top gear on Netflix
Wife thinks I am mad

Luis Ruvalcaba

James drives far too slow
The Stig looks on in disgust
Jeremy just laughs

John Roden

May, he has long hair
Clarkson, he is very tall
Hammond, he is not

James Jabulani Halllinan

Glorified Beetle
Engine incorrectly placed
Teeth and knuckles: white

Landin Ryan

Hearing the sound of the open throttle
Oh how I wonder who it must be as Chicago comes around on gear 3
Is it Captain Slow?
Oh how I must wonder, but I cannot hear any mumbling, just the sound of thunder
Is it Hammond?
No. This man sees over the wheel
And his teeth do not glisten like the jewels of the Queen's steel.
Oh no!
Then yes it must be
The sound of more power racing through my TV
The sound of the Ford GT
The sound of a man with E.D
His name Jeremy
Oh but a lonely man sits by the rocks and plays with his twig
His name , the Stig
This is Top Gear.

Paul Corigliano

Jezza, Hamster, Captain Slow,
Driven to success,
Each brings something close to heart,
Power, speed, finesse.

Lisa Cherrett

They say Hammond's from the United States
Because he loves chromium, Fords and
only eats steaks.

Give May a Dacia Sandero and he's
good to go, though he should have arrived
hours ago.

With an Aston Martin Clarkson is satisfied,
driving to the recording studio or countryside.

And the Stig should not be an author,
no matter how good the publishing offer.

Pete Pavlenko

There once was a driver called Stig,
Who's head was so white and so big
He slammed all the gears,
He spun his Goodyears
And some say he eats only pig.

Panos Spyropoulos

Three blokes, some cars,
Budget wheels with stars.
Opinions that vary,
In styles so contrary.
With features that rock,
In a style that can shock,
Entertain and unfold,
Automotive gold.

Chris Cordes

Through the storm and heavy rain
On ice, on sand or tarmac plain
People, driving there's insane.

Guys three, drive boldly there,
Eager, death in eyes they stare.
And even if your not a petrolhead,
Rise, applaud, don't be mislead.

Darko Popovic

Since I was a small child,
No older than six or maybe seven,
Motors have driven me wild,
I dreamed of a V8 heaven.

From Vauxhalls to Rollers,
Golfs, Fiestas and Corollas,
Rotaries and straight sixes,
All spurred on by my dad's under bonnet fixes.

I remember Quentin and Noel when I was a lad,
Now it's Jezza, May and Hamster driving us mad!

I found a passion for the peddle,
That makes me go faster,
On teenage road trips from Brighton to Lancaster!

The Allman Brothers' Jessica would be all I could hear and still is, even now, on the modern classic, the awesome TOP GEAR!

Scott Wigglesworth

It was the day before Christmas, and all round the track.
The lads were racing, James May at the back.
Tyre' were squealing, and engines were hot.
Going around Hammerhead, with all the power they got.
When all of a sudden, Jezza spied a Stig.
In his rear view mirror, wearing Barrichello's wig.
After passing May and up Hammond's rear end,
He shifted into top gear and took him on the bend.
With just Jeremy to pass, and cross the line.
He cut the corner, To save some time.
Coming up to Gambon, they were neck and neck.
When all of a sudden, James May from the back.
Drifted between the middle of the two, and the sign of the loser, he got to do.

Lenny Ryan

Captain slow drives in granny mode cruise control, hamster has the wheel(s) explode like the stig through new from old, jezza needs to stop those moans n mockin' different area codes across the globe, as we all know top gear the on point show for petrol heads who can't let go, speeds ahead like a nos can unleashed in flow even the celebs clamber to give it a go, will it ever end probably no as warms up that inner engine in the wintery snow...

London Lyricism