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,
He rolled 'ole number 7 Fire
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
He took the world 600, the old Atlanta 5
Bristol, Richmond, Nashville,
The hotdogs laid it on him. They'd draft,
But Fireball rolled a seven,
the kind that's hard to get.
He had the pole at Darlington; he
And he run away at Charlotte,
A slingshot sewed up Petty; he
was out in front real fast.
A checkered flag was in the bag; nobody
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.
