The road is my parchment
I'll write with my wheels
and my poem will talk
of the "in the wind" feel
Cos bikins a lifestyle
with its good and its bad
and I use the whole world
as my easel and pad.
My ink shall be oil, mud, grease and gas
And I'll write it on scenery
as I go past
I'll score it with mountains
and deep valley green
and back it with deserts
and quiet ocean scenes
The colours shall stain me
as I ride past
for the poem contains both
my present and past
I'll write it in segments
My pen is the scoot
and I'll use Biker grammar
full stops from my boot.
Its span shall include
roadside fixes I've botched,
Intimate times and the fires I've watched
All if the goodtimes
the whisky I've swilled
shall escape from times grasp
as the poem is filled
It will talk of near misses, emergency brakes
cos I live to the fullest
My freedoms at stake!
And as I fly by
on my scooter at pace
I'll go with a beard
and a smile on my face
My work like my scooter
is prone to be loud
Cos I'd rather ride life's highways
than walk with the crowd
And I know my style suffers
from lack of good care
but there no time for drafting
when winds in your hair
so I scribble it down
for the Brothers who care
for I know that Bikin's
a passion we share
though in the poem
sad stories abound;
for I live among good people
being driven to the ground,
there are also in its stanzas
many solid tales of hope
Cos a Biker always guts it out
and manages to cope.
And there's poetry in bikin life
as much as anywhere
and there's always stuff to write about
the lousy and the fair
So heres hoping when I'm old and grey
and cannot ride my bike
that I'll have the style and capital
to build a Harley trike
And the poem that I scribble now
while I am in my prime
will bring the good times
flooding back to my decrepit mind.