9/11 on an 1199

With the rising tumult,
the colt split the rum
in my predator eyes
like 45-RPMs strike
100 Usain bolts on a
33-record role to reprise.
I was seeing quadraphonics
that poly-carbon hydroponics
could only surmise. As I went
supersonic, the rubber felt
ironic where the tires left
the tarmac and my two
wheels started to fly.
Flies like bullets
desmodromic
etched the tartar
from my brick, and
my mortar-piston flesh
turned to tartare slicks for this
redlined pick between my thighs. It's
September the 11th & the Panigale's quick,
so I'm comfortably compelled to stick the R on 1199.